


To Feed Your Hunger

by FinAmour



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blowjobs, Body Shots, Bottom John, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Coming In Pants, Coming Untouched, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dirty Talk, Finger Sucking, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Hair-pulling, Humor, It’s porn! But with multiple porny chapters!, Jealous John, John Watson Being an Idiot, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Possessive John, Praise Kink, Rimming, Seductive Sherlock, Sexual Tension, Sherlock Holmes being an idiot, Shower Sex, Slow Build, Smut, Top John, Top Sherlock, s1-s2 vibes, sex at a crime scene, sex in small spaces, switchlock, wet dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2019-09-05 02:09:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16801594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/pseuds/FinAmour
Summary: What does a kiss say, after all? A kiss is a gift. A kiss is a promise.A kiss says, “You’re mine, and I’m yours.”John exhales. “Can I kiss you?”Sherlock is trembling in his arms. “If you don’t,” he murmurs roughly, “I may lose my mind.”**THIS FIC IS NOW COMPLETE**





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John stills. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen a more phenomenal sight than Sherlock in this moment, and he finds himself paralysed by the beauty of it.
> 
> Sherlock’s eyes finally open, piercing John with their intensity—wild and dark, blue-grey irises obscured almost completely.
> 
> “Sh—” John attempts, but the name remains lodged in his throat.
> 
> “John.” Sherlock’s voice is low and uninhibited. He continues to watch John, his other index finger trickling down his neck and coming to rest at his exposed collarbone. “Are you simply going to stand there, or are you going to come over here and take what it is that you want?”

John’s not home.  
  
No matter. Sherlock uses John’s laptop at any opportunity; the only precursor being that it’s more convenient than using his own. And right now, it is.

So he opens the lid of the computer, types in the (ridiculously-easy-to-guess) password, and waits impatiently for it to load. Almost immediately, he notices a new folder on John’s desktop that he hadn’t seen when he’d used it three days prior.  
  
It’s labeled “Vegetarian Recipes.”  
  
Bollocks, Sherlock thinks—John had eaten beef lo mein for dinner last night.

This could only mean one of two things: either John is considering becoming a vegetarian, or this is where he’s chosen to hide his pornography.  
  
Sherlock decides to investigate, of course. And it only takes three clicks to determine that John is decidedly not going to be buying more tofu in the near future.  
  
Not surprising. Sherlock “accidentally” comes across John’s “hidden” pornography collection semi-often, but it’s typically something to which he pays very little mind. He has seen the type of pornography John keeps, and it’s normally the standard “fornicate me missionary-style while I appear to be bored out of my mind” fare.

Upon first glance, however, the content of these videos seems to be vastly different from those prior. The most striking dissimilarity is that there isn’t a single woman in any of them.

Sherlock opens a few more to verify this, and indeed—it appears that all parties involved are men.  
  
Also not particularly surprising. Sherlock had known almost immediately upon meeting John that he is attracted to men just as much as he’s attracted to women. And for whatever reason, John doesn’t seem comfortable discussing it—but he doesn’t exactly hide it, either. Lingering stares directed at an attractive man in the supermarket. The deep shade of scarlet blossoming over John’s cheeks when an attractive man stares back. The way John not-so-subtly glides his tongue over his bottom lip whenever Sherlock stands close enough to feel John’s irregular breath on his skin.  
  
And though this knowledge has always, deep down, quietly fascinated Sherlock, he has never considered the possibilities it might present. Hasn’t considered what might turn John on; hasn’t considered John’s deepest desires. Hasn’t considered how John likes to be touched by a man; hasn’t considered what it might be like to be the man touching John.

But as Sherlock browses the depths of John’s new folder, one thing becomes very apparent: John seems quite interested in the sexual act of anilingus—or “rimming,” as the video titles suggest.  
  
Sherlock had, himself, participated in certain sexual acts before—mostly fellatio, back in his uni days. But he had never performed such an act as this, nor had such an act been performed on him, and the idea of it is surprisingly intriguing.  
  
So Sherlock continues to watch. And watch. And watch some more.  
  
A man wearing nothing but a bedsheet sprawls out across a kitchen counter, body arching upward, legs wrapped around the head of another man. Two men in a public restroom, snogging and ripping one another’s clothes off as one lifts the other onto the sink and tastes him. Two men in a shower, one leaning his body forward against the tiled wall, the other on his knees and spreading him apart. A man on his back on the floor, bound and blindfolded as his face is ground upon wildly.  
  
Sherlock begins to feel something as he watches. A warmth, a pressure in his lower abdomen—light beads of sweat dampening his forehead. This is a feeling he is not completely unfamiliar with, though it is something he normally tries to suppress.  
  
But this is different, somehow. Because he has the knowledge, now, that he and John are apparently aroused by the same act. And something within him is aching to remedy that arousal.  
  
As the actors in the video writhe with pleasure, Sherlock’s eyes slam shut involuntarily, and he finds himself picturing what it might be like to have John’s lips on him in such a way. Kissing him there wetly, rubbing his stubbled jaw against his skin, drinking all of him in.  
  
Sherlock tries to think about it reasonably. Would it be possible to explore, with John, this mutual fascination? They are friends, after all, and friends help one another out. Don't they?

Sherlock is not completely sure of how logical he’s being at the moment, but the feeling in his lower body is pulsating, becoming even stronger and more difficult to ignore. 

Sherlock wants to know what it’s like, and he wants John to know what it’s like. With him.

Sherlock wants John.  
  
So he closes the laptop, stands up from his armchair, and goes to text John immediately.  
  
***  
  
_What time will you be home? SH_  
  
_Just stepped out of the office to hail a cab. Everything okay?_  
  
_Are you planning to pick up dinner? SH_  
  
_I wasn’t planning on it, but I can. What are you craving?_  
  
_Hm. Maybe we should cook tonight instead. SH_  
  
_Sure, we can do that._  
  
_I’ve been scrolling through your “vegetarian recipes” and I have a few...ideas. SH_  
  
_Sherlock._  
  
_You’re an absolute sod sometimes, you know that?_  
  
_You’ve got to eat, John. SH_  
  
_How many times have I told you to stay off of my computer?_  
  
_You’ve got nothing to be angry about. SH_  
  
_It appears as though this is something you’d like to try. SH_

 _And I’d like to try it as well. SH_  
  
_Wait. What?_  
  
_So why don’t we? Try it, that is? SH_  
  
_Sherlock. Again. What?_  
  
_John. There's no need to feign ignorance. SH_

 _Why don't you come home and allow me to feed your hunger? SH_  
  
  
***  
  
John sits in the backseat of the taxicab, his face on fire, and he thinks he may be having a minor panic attack.  
  
He stares blankly at his phone screen, trying fiercely to come up with a response. He doesn’t know what to say, or how to act.  
  
He must be reading this wrong. Must be imagining it, or misinterpreting it, or—  
  
It can’t be real. Because it sounds as though Sherlock—his infuriating arrogant genius gorgeous flatmate—has delved into John’s “secret folder” (he should have known it would happen) and found his collection of pornographic videos.  
  
Oh, god.  
  
John had never told Sherlock directly, never really talked about being into men, but he should have known Sherlock would know. He is Sherlock, after all, and he can read people with complete and utter accuracy.  
  
John has never known for sure about Sherlock’s preferences, however. He seems to like murders and crimes, and not much else. But, well. Perhaps there is more to Sherlock than John even knows.   
  
Truth be told, John has always been attracted to his flatmate—how could be not be? His dark, mysterious, self-confident aura? The silky curls and smooth skin and plump, dusky lips?  
  
But he’s never considered acting on it. Not past their first night together, when Sherlock made it clear that sex is not something that will ever be on the menu.  
  
That doesn’t mean John hasn’t thought about it, of course—some nights, alone in his bed, or in the shower—he's thought about Sherlock’s smooth skin against his. His own fingers in those silky curls, or those pale, pink lips on his body, anywhere and everywhere.  
  
And Sherlock knows now. He _must_ know. And he’s...offering to...what is he offering, exactly?  
  
John really ought to become better at coming up with his laptop passwords.  
  
And John really ought to be angry with Sherlock; not aroused. But as it so often seems to be, he’s a little of both.  
  
John elects to say nothing in response, because he has no way of knowing for sure, over text, what Sherlock means. And he can’t jump to conclusions. He can’t answer him now—not until he sees Sherlock face to face.  
  
And what then? What if Sherlock is proposing what John thinks he is? John doesn’t even know what his answer would be.  
  
So he continues to ride home silently, though his head is screaming and swimming with possibilities. And as he exits the taxicab at Baker Street, he enters and climbs the stairs with much more enthusiasm and urgency than usual.  
  
The flat is quiet behind the door.  
  
John hesitates before opening it, not knowing what to expect on the other side. Nearly every thought causes his face to burn, his abdomen to tighten with arousal—and given his current state, it’s probably not a wise idea to enter immediately.  
  
No.  
  
John breathes steadily. Surely, this is all just a joke. Sherlock is teasing him for his less-than-standard kinks. Sherlock is trying to teach him a lesson—that he ought not to leave his digital media collection so readily available. Sherlock is messing with him for no other reason than the fact that he _can._  
  
And just like that, John feels furious again. He inhales, mustering up his courage, and pushes the door open.  
  
“You utter prat,” he hears himself calling out as he barges into the sitting room. “Going through my things, and having the audacity to talk about—"  
  
John’s words are cut off with a stifled moan, his teeth digging into his bottom lip as the image before him almost knocks him onto the floor.  
  
Fuck.  
  
Sherlock sits before John in his armchair, slouched down, arms casually slung onto each armrest. His head is lulled to the right side, curls bobbing over his face with ragged inhalations and exhalations. He’s wearing nothing but his silk robe, untied at the waist and draped open. Each flap of silk is crumpled next to Sherlock’s outer thighs as his legs lay spread as far as he can manage within the space of the armchair. His feet are perched on the coffee table in front of him. His knees are bent—providing John with a view that accentuates the round curves of his arse as it peeks out from below his thighs.  
  
John breathlessly and involuntary steps forward to get a closer look at him, and it’s then that he notices Sherlock doing something with his hands.   
  
It takes everything in John’s power not to gasp aloud at what he sees.  
  
Sherlock’s index finger is drifting in repeated, tiny circles over the small, pink ring of his arsehole. His eyes are closed, lids fluttering, and his cock is laying over to one side, half-erect.

John stills. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen a more phenomenal sight than Sherlock in this moment, and he finds himself paralysed by the beauty of it.

Sherlock’s eyes finally open, piercing John with their intensity—wild and dark, blue-grey irises obscured almost completely.

“Sh—” John attempts, but the name remains lodged in his throat.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice is low and uninhibited. He continues to watch John, his other index finger trickling down his neck and coming to rest at his exposed collarbone. “Are you simply going to stand there, or are you going to come over here and take what it is that you want?”

The question is dizzying, although every sense in John's body seems to be heightened. “Sherlock,” he says coarsely. “If you’re messing with me, I’m going to wring your fucking neck.” 

Sherlock slowly removes his finger from the ring of his arsehole, lifting his eyebrow precariously at John. “This is quite a ruse, John, if it’s only to annoy you. Even I am not that cruel.” His voice is satin, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “But I plan to finish what I have started, so you can either stand there and watch as I bring myself to orgasm; go to your bedroom and think about watching me do so; or you can satisfy your curiosity and learn my taste.”  
  
_Christ._  
  
John darts forward. Before he can even take a breath, he is sinking to his knees and wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s lower thighs. He doesn’t pay any mind to Sherlock’s gorgeous features—he’s only got one presently in mind—immediately wetting his lips and pressing them firmly and desperately against Sherlock’s pink hole.  
  
Feeling Sherlock buck forward at the initial contact, John knows instantly that there is no use holding back—no reason to be slow or delicate with this. So he dives in, planting open-mouthed kisses around Sherlock’s arsehole, his tongue swirling out to enhance the feeling. Sherlock keens, knotting his fingers into John’s short, sandy hair, pulling his face in closer, urging him to give more.  
  
John is hungry for every little bit of Sherlock that he can consume. He is immediately intoxicated by Sherlock’s taste, by Sherlock’s scent, by _Sherlock._ He groans himself as he traces languid circles around Sherlock’s rim, alternating between biting and sucking.  
  
Sherlock makes tiny whimpering noises as he pulls at John’s hair wildly. “John,” he groans pleadingly. “More. More. More.”  
  
John complies, widening his mouth so that his lips are wetly encasing Sherlock’s rim, and he peeks his tongue into the hole tentatively. Sherlock’s hips buck upwards sharply, and this reaction causes John to feel dizzy and flushed and overwhelmed and half-crazed. He knows the sounds coming from his own mouth are loud and desperate and greedy, but he can’t stop them.

 _God,_ how he'd wanted this.  
  
Sherlock gasps and arches his body once more, muting John’s thoughts. John reaches around Sherlock’s legs, pressing downward to keep Sherlock from lurching too wildly as he pulls his tongue out, sliding his lips over the area teasingly.  
  
Sherlock lets out a startled, indignant cry before John plunges his tongue back in—deeper, this time. Sherlock gasps through clenched teeth, his fingers gripping so hard onto John’s hair that he nearly pulls it out in clumps.  
  
John removes his tongue once more, running it sloppily over Sherlock’s hole before reinserting it. Sherlock is looser now, John can tell—his body is complying to John’s thrusts. John takes this opportunity to pull out more quickly and rhythmically, plunging deeper and deeper each time.  
  
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Sherlock groans, his voice and his body trembling as John continues to fuck him with his tongue more deliberately. Sherlock lets out a near wail, and John sighs with pleasure as he begins to feel Sherlock’s arsehole clench around his tongue.  
  
“Oh,” Sherlock exhales slowly, his voice low. “Oh. Oh.” The words are beating in time with the pulsating feeling at John’s lips, becoming gradually higher and louder. But John doesn’t pull away, plunging his tongue in and out of Sherlock throughout his entire climax. "John,” Sherlock groans. “John, fuck. John, God _, John."_

And John, rock-hard in his own pants, nearly comes from the sound and the feeling of Sherlock's intense orgasm alone. But he allows Sherlock to ride it out, to breathe and steady himself before slowly removing his tongue. He pulls his head back and looks up at Sherlock, and Sherlock gazes back at him, still shaking, half-lidded and half-stunned.

“Hm," is all he says.  
  
“Y-yep.” John says back. He's unsure of what to do next. He knows what he would normally do in this situation, of course, but there is nothing at all normal about this.  
  
All he knows is that Sherlock looks devastatingly beautiful right now. His face is flushed, his eyes are glassy and blown dark. His lips are wet and plump, and John knows that he could lean forward right now and kiss them.

He doesn't. Because he's not going to last much longer. Not with the way Sherlock is looking at him.  
  
“Alright, then," John says dumbly. "Goodnight." He quickly stands to scurry off to his room.  
  
Sherlock calls out after him, but John can’t move fast enough. And as he climbs the stairs, he thinks that he might actually climax in his pants simply from the sensation of the fabric against his erection. He walks through his bedroom door, unzips his trousers, and reaches into them desperately. He gives himself one stroke before he comes explosively into his own hand, the sound of Sherlock’s orgasm still fresh in his mind.  
  
And as he glides down from his state of euphoria, light-headed and weak in the knees—only then does he realise that he hadn’t even closed his bedroom door.  
  
The sound of Sherlock’s voice from behind him is what pulls him in.  
  
“John,” Sherlock rasps.

John’s eyes flutter open as he spins to look at the man in his doorway.

Sherlock. Completely nude, skin porcelain—other than the flush of arousal spotting his neck and chest.

Sherlock. Staring back at him, sleepy-eyed, those perfect, kissable lips dry and slightly parted. “You ought to have allowed me to do that," he says. "I could have made it even better.”  
  
John doesn’t even try to hide the look he gives Sherlock, wide-eyed and hungry still. “Yeah, I don’t—“ he stumbles over the words. “I’m sorry. My urges seem to have overtaken me, and I suppose I felt somewhat embarrassed—"  
  
“Why on earth would you apologise—for that?” Sherlock responds sharply. “Were you even _there?"_  
  
John chuckles softly, a reaction he finds surprising. “Physically? Yes. Although mentally, I’m pretty sure I was on another plane.” And suddenly, he can’t take the weakness in his legs anymore, and he sighs, collapsing slowly to his knees.  
  
Sherlock gazes down at John, his eyes just as dark and wild as they had been a few moments ago, when he had come completely untouched. “Interesting,” he says. “Me, too.”  
  
John smiles up at him, and he thinks he can see a smile ghosting Sherlock’s lips as well.  
  
“I believe we ought to try this again, John,” Sherlock says. “If only to see what exactly _that_ is all about.”  
  
“Absolutely,” John responds without a second thought.  
  
"Good." Sherlock presses his lips into a thin line before turning gracefully to exit, and John simply watches him go.

“And about dinner,” Sherlock calls out over his shoulder. “It seems I’ve worked up quite an appetite. I’m sure you have as well.”  
  
“Yeah." John's smile grows wider; more fond. “I’ll call and order up some takeout. Pad Thai alright with you?”  
  
Sherlock turns his head, regarding John silently for a moment before responding. “I’ll have whatever it is you’re having.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s no denying how badly John wants Sherlock.
> 
> How he wants nothing more than to sink onto the sofa with him, clinging and gasping and moaning; to lay him across the table and slowly take him apart.
> 
> But he shouldn’t. Because Sherlock is his best friend and flatmate, and their friendship isn’t something he’s willing to risk.
> 
> Not even for sex.
> 
> Not even for the most incredible sex he’s ever had.

The first few rays of sun glimpse into Sherlock’s bedroom as he sprawls restlessly beneath his warm blankets. It’s six in the morning, and his brain won’t quiet down, and he’s not even sure he wants it to. Images of the things he’d done with John the evening before flutter relentlessly through his head, stirring a commotion within him that won’t let him rest.

As the hours tick by, Sherlock replays, over and over, every moment in his mind: how John had kneeled before him, pinning his legs against the arms of his chair, his skillful tongue sliding in and out of Sherlock’s opening. The beads of sweat forming at his brow as he’d gazed up at Sherlock with his startlingly blue eyes, his pupils blown wide and dark. The deep concentration in every move that he’d made, wholly determined to give Sherlock intense physical gratification.

And though Sherlock hadn’t seen John’s face the moment John had brought himself to orgasm, he can recall the sound of it with perfect clarity. The stuttering, ragged exhalation that had occurred with his release, the bitten-off moan as he’d uttered Sherlock’s name.

As Sherlock begins to imagine how John’s face might have looked in that moment, he can no longer disregard his own arousal. He glides his fingers into the opening of his pyjama bottoms, envisioning John as vividly as he can. And he wonders—when John comes, does he tightly clench his sapphire eyes in the passion of the moment, or do his eyelids flutter with the ecstasy? Does he sink his teeth into his bottom lip, the way he always does when he’s trying not to say too much, or does his tongue graze over it in that oblivious manner that drives Sherlock mad?

Sherlock encloses his own half-hard cock in his hand, lifting his hips rhythmically up from the bed to slide into his own grip. His strokes grow faster as he contemplates the ways which he could bring John to orgasm. Countless ways with his mouth alone, and countless more with just his hands. He fantasises about where he could do these things—in countless places. In his bed. On the rug in the sitting room. On the cold tiles of the kitchen floor, or up against the corridor wall.

The thoughts cloud Sherlock’s head as he coaxes himself through his climax, John’s face in his mind and his name on his lips. His cock twitches in his hands, and he exhales with the great pleasure of release after several hours of fantasies. But as amazing as it feels, Sherlock thinks, it’s nowhere near as earth-shattering as it had been with John.

John had affected Sherlock in a way he’d never before been affected, not in all the years of his life. And it mystifies and puzzles Sherlock, and he thinks perhaps he wants to explore it, in every way, in every place, and for as long as John will let him.

It’s got nothing to do with sentiment, of course. John is a friend Sherlock loves deeply, and that’s it. He knows better than to dive into something as burdensome as romantic entanglement—and besides, that’s not something John would want from him anyway.

But as much as Sherlock has tried to deny so in the past, he _does_ have certain urges. And apparently, he and John share similar urges, and—if last night had been any indication—they know how to satisfy those urges in one another quite well.

As Sherlock cleans himself off with an old shirt, he hears John rustling about in the kitchen. He immediately feels a twinge of nervous excitement in his abdomen, his mind bombarded with a thousand annoying questions.

_What’s going to happen now?_

_What is the appropriate thing to say in such a situation?_

_Should we delve straight into the next sexual exploit?_

_Is John going to want to kiss me, or hold my hand at crime scenes?_

Burgeoning curiosity—as well as the scent of toast—are what finally pull Sherlock from his bed.

Before exiting his bedroom, he pauses to look himself over in the mirror. His hair is tousled, his cheeks faintly flushed from orgasm. His thin cotton t-shirt and trousers drape comfortably from his body, but emphasise it in all the right places.

He smiles appreciatively at himself in the mirror before opening his door and joining John in the dining room.

John sits at the table, dressed in his bathrobe, reading the paper and sipping on a mug of tea. He nonchalantly flashes Sherlock a smile, and the brightness of his eyes—even in a state of early sleepiness—prompts Sherlock to stop dead in his tracks.

John clears his throat. “Morning,” he says, shifting his attention back to the paper, though the grin on his face doesn’t fade. “How’d you sleep?” 

_Oh. So that’s how you’re going to play it,_ Sherlock thinks. _Casual, and as if nothing happened._

“Didn’t,” Sherlock responds, regarding John inquisitively. “And you?”

“Yeah, good,” John answers, his expression irritatingly unbothered. “Kettle’s on if you’d like some tea.” He looks back up at Sherlock and smiles even more brightly, creating a surge of fondness to blossom in Sherlock’s sternum.

Sherlock will be having none of that.

It’s time to talk business.

“I’ve got a few different things I’d like to try,” Sherlock says sensibly as he moves towards the dining room table.

“Alright,” John replies. “Suit yourself. There’s coffee in the cupboard, and some juice in the refrigerator—“

“That _isn’t—_ “ Sherlock cuts him off with a wave of his hand and a roll of his eyes. “—That isn’t what I was referring to.”

“Oh?” John chuckles softly, setting his newspaper onto the table next to a plate of half-eaten toast. “So you’re referring to…?”

“Sex, John,” Sherlock blurts impatiently. “I think I have a decent idea of what you like, but I believe we should test out various techniques and locations, if you’re amenable. And if there is anything you’d like to add—“

“Sherlock.” John’s voice is soft but firm as he rises from the table, not breaking eye contact as he walks to meet Sherlock in the centre of the room. There’s a wry smile on his face, an air of serene confidence that Sherlock finds equally irritating and attractive.

“You know—“ John continues, sliding his tongue out over his bottom lip in that stupid innocuous manner that Sherlock secretly loves.

“Yes?” Sherlock answers.

John closes in on him, his eyes flitting down to Sherlock’s lips and staying there. “We really ought to be thinking about all this.”

Sherlock’s own eyes travel to John’s pink lips, down his blushing neck, to his pulse point, throbbing and irregular. “What have we got to think about?” he asks as John’s gravity pulls him closer.

“Well, you know. We’re flatmates, you and I.” John’s words pour out, a hot breath against Sherlock’s cool skin. “Sleeping together regularly may...complicate things.”

Sherlock silently observes John before quirking one corner of his mouth. “You’re displaying obvious physical signs of arousal, John. And yet you’re telling me you have no interest in pursuing this?”

John laughs softly, lifting his eyes back to Sherlock’s. “I’m not saying that, no. I’m just saying we ought to be careful. Feel it out. Maybe wait a bit before next time.”

Sherlock purses his lips together, caught in John’s sweltering gaze, fighting every urge he currently has in his body. He doesn’t want to wait. He wants it right here, right now, and—

“Alright.” Sherlock’s lips form rapidly into a tight, forced smile. “I suppose you’ll just, erm. Let me know. When the time is right.”

“Yeah.” John nods with one eyebrow raised, still grinning. “I’ll definitely do that.”

Sherlock nods in return, and then backs away, turning to stroll towards the kitchen.

If John wants to play hard-to-get, so be it—after all, Sherlock takes great pleasure in the thrill of the chase.

***

There’s no denying how badly John wants Sherlock.

How he wants nothing more than to sink onto the sofa with him, clinging and gasping and moaning; to lay him across the table and slowly take him apart.

But he shouldn’t. Because Sherlock is his best friend and flatmate, and their friendship isn’t something he’s willing to risk.

Not even for sex.

Not even for the most incredible sex he’s ever had.

God, John thinks, but the way Sherlock looks in this moment, hair tousled from sleep, lips pouting the tiniest bit as an afterthought to John’s words—it’s nearly too much for John to endure.

And as Sherlock strolls towards the kitchen, his trousers hugging the delicious curves of his perfect, round arse, John swears to himself under is breath.

He’s really not sure how long he’ll be able to hold out.

***

A week passes, and they don’t talk about it.

But each day, in an act that is shocking to absolutely nobody, Sherlock spends a great deal of time “subtly” attempting to seduce John. He saunters around their flat, thinly-clothed, biting his lip and stroking his hair; dishing out longing glances and coy smiles.

John would be incredibly annoyed if he weren’t enjoying it so much.

It seems to have become a game between the two of them, now: cat and mouse. The hunter and the hunted.

The game continues out of the flat, as well—at a restaurant or in a cab, where Sherlock will brush his body not-so-innocently against John’s, just enough to flare up the desire for one more touch. At a crime scene, where Sherlock will rattle off his brilliant deductions as he stands before John with an expectant look, knowing full well that John might cave.

“ _Quit_ that,” John commands one evening as Sherlock is perched across from him in his armchair. His long, lithe fingers slowly graze over his plump, dry lips, and it’s driving John completely mad.

Sherlock unapologetically leans across his chair towards John, the buttons of his collared shirt visibly straining. “Quit...what?” he asks.

“ _That_ ,” John says as he gestures demonstratively at Sherlock. “The way you’re... sitting.”

Sherlock hangs his head to one side, his slick, dark curls dropping downwards to frame his face. “I’m _thinking,”_ he says with a half-smile. “I always sit like this when I think.”

“Well...stop...bloody...thinking!” John throws his hands in the air, just shy of hysterical. “Or better yet, go think somewhere else! I’ve got work I need to do.”

A knowing expression flashes across Sherlock’s features, and with it, he rises from his seat, pinning John beneath his gaze. He approaches John, pausing to hover just beside his armchair. “Perhaps it’s you who is thinking far too much, John, when you ought to simply _act_.”

John exhales with a shiver, his eyes falling shut as Sherlock’s smooth baritone voice echoes in his head. And Sherlock is right—John thinks perhaps he’s through with overthinking the situation, and he just wants to act on his urges. But when John’s eyes reopen, Sherlock has already turned to walk to his bedroom, closing the door behind him.

***

On a Saturday morning, ten days into their game, John is finally defeated.

He’s minding his own business at the dining room table, reading the paper and sipping his tea, per usual.

And then, Sherlock emerges from the shower, anything and everything but ordinary. His ivory skin is glistening and soft, still dewy and moist. His hair falls in damp ringlets over his forehead, and his towel is slung lowly at his hips, leaving very little to the imagination.

John’s mouth falls open so immediately, he nearly chokes on his tea.

As Sherlock silently walks closer to him, John tears his eyes away and glues them to the newspaper.

Sherlock again pauses just centimetres from John, directly in his line of sight, and John is helpless but to look.

Sherlock’s rounded hip bones jut outwards where the thick white towel hangs loosely at his waist. The slick skin of his lower abdomen forms a v-shape, crested with curly, dark tufts of hair beneath his navel.

John swallows thickly, shuffling in his seat. “Sherlock, could you—“

“Could I... what?” Sherlock asks, his voice so low it’s nearly a purr. He smells absolutely delicious, musky like sex and sweet like honey, and John wants to breathe him in more than he wants oxygen.

John drops his newspaper to the floor.

He gazes up at Sherlock—this perfect, gorgeous man—cheeks flushed, lips slightly parted as he gazes right back.

“Sherlock—“ he murmurs. Lifts his hands to Sherlock’s waist. Keeps them there. Trickles his thumbs carefully over his hip bones. Leans in. Exhales a hot breath over Sherlock’s navel. Pauses.

“John,” Sherlock sighs, wrapping his fingers into the hair at the back of John’s head, clutching it and drawing him in closer. “John. Do. _Not._ Stop.”

John laughs lowly as his lips graze over Sherlock’s bare skin, where he plants a handful of open-mouthed kisses before tracing a wet line across Sherlock’s hip with his tongue.

Grasping more tightly onto John’s hair, Sherlock exhales with a shiver.

John slides his tongue across Sherlock’s belly, downwards to the v-shape; glides it over the patch of hair and underneath the towel.

“Oh, oh...” Sherlock moans, pulling again at John’s hair as he squirms.

“You’ve won, you gorgeous fucking creature,” John says lowly, and Sherlock moans again. John places his fingers on the towel, dipping his head downwards, absolutely ready to devour him.

But fate, apparently, has other plans.

Without any warning, Sherlock lets go of John’s hair, flinging his arms down to his sides. “No!” He huffs. “Not now, for the love of god!”

John instantly rips his hands from Sherlock’s body in a panic. “Jesus, I’m sorry, I—“

Sherlock looks down at John and shakes his head, an expression of regret and supreme annoyance on his face. “No, not _you_ ,” he huffs.

And then there’s a knock at the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was a bit cruel, wasn’t it? I promise full on sexy times next chapter :) Be sure to subscribe so you can know when it updates!
> 
> (Also, I promise the wait won’t be long.)
> 
> And thank you, lollie, for your help with this chapter ❤️


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John sighs wistfully, pining for the scandalous sexual acts that tragically did not come to fruition. He decides it’s time to sleep, so he sets his book on the nightstand and rolls over onto his stomach. His mind almost immediately drifts to thoughts of Sherlock. The way he had smelled earlier, the way his clean, dewy skin had felt at John’s lips. In his state of semi-consciousness, he begins to rut his hips into the mattress, and he sighs, and it feels good, so he doesn’t stop. And he plays it all out in his head, the way it would have gone, should have gone, if he and Sherlock hadn’t been interrupted earlier that day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovelies!
> 
> I hope this massive update with lots of sexytimes makes up for the way I teased you last week. 
> 
> Enjoy <3
> 
> (Not beta’ed, because I like to live dangerously. Please forgive the mistakes.)

John thinks he could cry.

He’s hoping, at the very least, with every hope in his body, that the person knocking at the door is simply some ill-timed, uninformed client. Or Mrs. Hudson, perhaps, or someone else who can easily be sent on their way, so that he and Sherlock can continue what they’re doing, because what they’re doing is very, very good, and John does _not_ want to _stop._

But deep in his gut, John knows better. He knows, because the expression of disdain on Sherlock’s face is expressly reserved for one person.

“Answer the door,” a prim and haughty voice oozes in from the corridor. “I know you’re there.”

As Sherlock sighs heavily, John groans with as much good nature as he can muster. He sets his hands at Sherlock’s hips and pulls his rigid body back in. “If we ignore him,” he whispers into the soft skin below Sherlock’s navel, “perhaps he’ll simply disappear.”

Sherlock relaxes into his friend’s touch, wrapping his arms around John’s shoulders and humming with amusement. “Worth a try,” he mumbles.

John places another open-mouthed kiss to Sherlock’s stomach once, twice, a third time—

The second knock is even more grating than the first.

“I need to speak with you,” the voice says, as painful to the ears as nails on a blackboard. “Sherlock. You haven’t been answering your phone or your text messages.”

“Because I’m _busy,”_ Sherlock snaps through gritted teeth, loudly enough to be heard through the wooden door. He rips his body away from John once more, and John feels like crying once more, and he’s never wanted Mycroft to leave more than he does in this very moment.

“Please,” Mycroft urges.

Sherlock throws his arms to his sides and wraps himself more tightly in his towel. He rolls his eyes and huffs in a manner that John finds oddly endearing, and John catches himself smiling at Sherlock’s insolence.

As Sherlock stomps towards the door, John rises from where he sits. “Erm, Sherlock,” he calls after the other man. “Are you going to, erm—”

Sherlock throws a confused glance at John. “Am I going to what?”

“You know.” John gestures weakly towards Sherlock’s nearly naked body. “Wear. Something?”

Sherlock frowns. “Why should I? _He’s_ the one who interrupted. If he’s irritated by my lack of clothing, he can leave.”

“Right.” John nods tersely as he runs off to hide in his bedroom, stopping at the bottom of the stairs. He’s trying not ask the question nagging at the forefront of his mind, but he’s just not sure how comfortable he is with evidence of _what_ he and Sherlock had been doing. “Sherlock," he asks. "Are you—?”

Sherlock pauses again and turns. “What, John?” he asks, exasperated.

“You know, are you still—” John waves his hands at his own lower body. “—at full mast?”

Sherlock’s face twists with disgust. “God, John. No. How could I possibly be after hearing _that_ voice?”

“Very much same,” John abruptly agrees as he spins back around to climb up to his bedroom.

Once inside his room, John lets his head fall back onto his closed door and sighs deeply, allowing himself a moment of pity. While he rues the day he was born, or really just the day Mycroft was born, he can hear muffled voices arguing from below. He thinks he can make out “you’ll need to come with me,” and “this needs to be taken care of immediately,” and a handful of other inaudible exchanges before he can feel the flat physically shake with the slam of their front door.

John tries not to get his hopes up at Mycroft leaving suspiciously quickly, which is apparently a wise decision. Because as he peeks down into the sitting room, he takes note that Sherlock is no longer there, either.

Bugger.

John descends the stairs, pops his head into the kitchen and the living room, but still no Sherlock. He sighs again, turning to make his way back to the dining room table, just as Sherlock’s bedroom door swings open.

Sherlock emerges, fully clothed in his everyday attire, and he stops, standing before John, shuffling nervously and neglecting to make eye contact.

John stares him up and down, and he feels a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

He hasn’t stopped craving the cool skin of Sherlock’s abdomen against his lips.

“You’re going out?” John asks, though he can tell by Sherlock’s clothing that he is; “Everything okay?” John asks, though he can tell by Sherlock’s body language that it’s not.

“John, I apologise—“ Sherlock mutters. “Something’s come up and I need to leave for a while.”

“Oh.” John’s stomach sinks even lower as he attempts, probably not very successfully, to hide his disappointment. “Going out for a case, or—d’you want me to come along? I can…”

“No.” Sherlock gives John a weak half-smile, regards him for a few more seconds and loudly exhales. “This is something that only concerns me.”

John doesn’t know what to say. “Alright,” is all that comes out. He wants to say more, wants to know more, wants to do more, but he’s clueless. Fuck, he just doesn’t want Sherlock to leave. 

But with a nod in John’s direction, and not another word, Sherlock turns towards the door, and that's exactly what he does.

***

John knows he shouldn’t worry himself late that evening when he gets ready for bed. He knows he ought not to think about Sherlock as he showers, brushes his teeth, gets beneath the covers with a book, and consciously doesn’t check his phone for the hundredth time.

Why should he even care? Sherlock had left him without any explanation, which is quite a normal occurrence. Well, alright. Just after they’d begun to participate in scandalous sexual acts, which is, admittedly, an abnormal occurrence.

But it wouldn’t kill Sherlock to send a text letting him know he’s alright, or when to expect him back, or. Whatever.

Not that John cares. It’s his own bloody life.

John sighs wistfully, pining for the scandalous sexual acts that tragically did not come to fruition. He decides it’s time to sleep, so he sets his book on the nightstand and rolls over onto his stomach. His mind almost immediately drifts to thoughts of Sherlock. The way he had smelled earlier, the way his clean, dewy skin had felt at John’s lips. In his state of semi-consciousness, he begins to rut his hips into the mattress, and he sighs, and it feels good, so he doesn’t stop. And he plays it all out in his head, the way it would have gone, _should_ have gone, if he and Sherlock hadn’t been interrupted earlier that day.

John’s fingers, eagerly unwinding the knot holding the towel at Sherlock’s waist; unwrapping it like a gift. Sherlock giving into John’s movements as he stands there, every bit of himself on display for John to admire. The milky white skin, the jagged hip bones pointing inwards like a beacon to the trace of curly hair leading to Sherlock’s thick and heavy cock, hanging downwards against his right thigh and leaking at the tip. John, moaning at the mere sight of it, longing for it, starving—fighting the urge to take it all into his mouth greedily.

Leaning in and teasing, licking at the corners of Sherlock’s inner thighs, as Sherlock sucks in a sharp breath and digs his fingernails into the flesh of John’s shoulders. Tracing his tongue around the shaft, wrapping his fingers around it to steady it, gliding his tongue back to the tip and lapping up the precome. Flicking it over the tip once more before popping his lips tightly over the head as Sherlock cries out, seizing in an effort not to buck forward.

John, humming with delight and want for more, more, more. Glancing up at Sherlock, his eyes clenched, head lolled backwards, biting at his bottom lip. Slowly, but in one very deliberate movement, swallowing the rest of Sherlock’s cock into his mouth. Sherlock’s nails digging in so hard they break skin, unable to resist the urge to strain his hips forward into John’s mouth. John, unable to resist the urge as well, simply opening his throat to accommodate every centimetre. Sherlock, pausing and muttering an apology, and John answering by squeezing Sherlock’s arse and pulling him closer, his hungry moans of pleasure begging Sherlock for more.

Sherlock, making an offhand comment about how John will be the death of him, and John thinking that there must be no better way to die. Sherlock, leaning forward to place his hands on the arms of John’s chair, using his height to his advantage, slowly pumping his cock into John’s mouth. John sinking downward, maximising the effect as he uses his grip on Sherlock’s backside to guide him in and out, harder and faster until he’s effectively fucking John’s throat.

Harder, and harder, and faster, until Sherlock comes, and comes, and comes. 

And as he does, John _feels_ it, deeply—the explosion and the pulsing and the gooseflesh rising on his skin. As he stirs awake, however, he realises that the groans of pleasure are his own, and that he’s still in his own bed, and he’s come in his pants like a teenager.

God, the things Sherlock does to him when he isn’t even there.

He hopes he’ll return soon.

***

John tries to let it slide that Sherlock doesn’t contact him the day after that, or even the day after that. Tries not to feel as though Sherlock is playing mind games, having spent two weeks seducing him to only disappear once he’d given in. Tries not to imagine that Sherlock is likely traipsing around London on some stellar case that he’s deigned too dangerous or too important for John, and tries to tell himself that he’s not going to put up with it anymore.

That’s right, John decides. He’s through, and if Sherlock comes back wanting more, then boo bloody hoo. He’s not going to give Sherlock what he wants, not this time.

Even if John wants it, too.

Which he doesn’t. He doesn’t want that beautiful cock in his mouth, doesn’t want those long fingers entwined in his hair, doesn’t want that lithe body breathing loudly and panting desperately atop his own.

Not one bit.

On the fourth day Sherlock is away, John’s got all of 221 Baker Street to himself. Mrs. Hudson’s gone on some sort of group excursion with her bridge club, and though she’d offered to stay behind with John out of some odd form of pity, John had urged her to go.

That evening, a thunderstorm rolls in, and it’s a strong one. The lightning flickers outside like fireworks as rain beats down onto the window panes. John makes himself a nice dinner of chicken parmesan, risks electrocution by enjoying some television programme about wildlife, and watches a bit of the late night news.

Before he knows it, it’s nearly midnight, and he’s got no desire to sleep whatsoever. In fact, his body is sizzling with an irritating frenetic energy that won’t settle down, a frazzling, unsettling disquiet in his stomach, and he can’t fight the urge to get out of the flat—but he’s not about to go out in this sort of weather.

A clap of thunder tears through the air, and the power flickers off.

“Shit,” John whispers to himself. He waits for a hopeful moment to see if the power returns, but it doesn’t. So he hoists himself from the sofa and makes for the stairwell, where he knows Mrs. Hudson keeps a supply of flashlights and extra candles in the cupboard.

It’s pitch-black in the corridor, the sparks in the night sky working only intermittently to illuminate the sheets of rain and eerie fog outside the window. Other than the howling wind and peals of thunder every so often, it’s deadly quiet. As John makes his way down the seventeen steps, he is suddenly keenly aware of how alone he is, and he grapples at the railing to ensure he doesn’t slip and fall. 

Once he’s gotten his bearings at the bottom of the stairwell, he treads towards the cupboard, reaching out to pull open the top drawer. He crouches over, rummaging through its contents, wondering to himself whether there are any candles left, or whether Sherlock’s used them all for various experiments.

He hears a faint rustling sound, and feels a heavy hand on his shoulder.

John’s reaction is one of instinctual self-defence, and that of a military-trained man. He whips his arms upwards, tossing the unknown hand off his shoulder, turning to grab the perpetrator by the arm. Using the force of their own body weight, in one brisk movement, he slams the intruder back into the wall so that the two of them are face-to-face, one hand over their neck and the other pinning their arm above their head.

As the lightning illuminates the dark room, a pair of unblinking verdigris eyes, edges lined with amusement, peers back at John from behind a curtain of dampened black curls.

Ah, he’d know those eyes anywhere.

 _“Fuck,_ Sherlock,” John barks, his heart racing. “I was about to wring your neck.” Buzzing with adrenaline, John breathes heavily, his head hanging over Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock smells like rain, and his wet curls brush lightly against John’s face, and John tries not to make a show out of inhaling the heady scent. “Wasn’t expecting you back tonight, either,” he says.

“I _live_ here,” Sherlock points out, his voice a breath above John’s ear. Unbidden, John shivers with the delight of hearing that voice after days of waiting.

“Could have fooled me,” John retorts. “You’ve been away for quite some time, haven’t you?”

Sherlock is silent as the thunder and rain continue to rattle the building. He’s wearing one of his silk tailored dress shirts, soaked through and clinging to his skin. John is too close to Sherlock to see his face, but he can sense a hesitance in his demeanour. “I don’t particularly want to talk about it,” he responds flatly.

“Alright,” John says into Sherlock’s ear, and doesn’t push it. It’s only now that he realises he’s still got one hand on Sherlock’s throat, and the other is clasping the wet sleeve of his right arm. He releases his grasp, stepping away and mumbling an apology.

But in yet another graceful and unexpected movement, Sherlock takes John by his arms, spins him and pins _him_ against the wall. He leans in on his own forearms, framing John’s head between them, and he dips his own head next to John’s.

John is nearly knocked breathless. “Sherlock, what the hell are you—”

“Mrs. Hudson is out, I presume?” Sherlock murmurs softly into John’s ear.

“Yes,” John replies. “She’s out at some...getaway, or something.”

“Wonderful,” Sherlock purrs. “Then we won’t need to keep the volume down.”

“What do—? Oh.” John’s mind still hasn’t caught up completely to what’s going on, having been slammed into a wall mere seconds ago. But suddenly, Sherlock’s tongue is in his ear, his breath hot and wicked, making his point very clear.

“Sherlock,” John mumbles, his resolve already wavering.

“I’ve fantasised about this, you know.” Sherlock’s voice is low, low, low. “Thought about the two of us up against this wall, squirming and writhing desperately as we bring one another to orgasm.”

John exhales again, loudly, shakily. “Sherlock—you think you can just go away, not say anything to me for days, and then come back and expect—”

Sherlock presses his rain-soaked body into John’s, rolling his hips forward into the opening of John’s pyjama bottoms, proving that he definitely _can_ expect such a thing. John bites his lip to stifle a moan, because the throbbing thickness between Sherlock’s legs rubbing against John’s thinly-clothed cock feels _so_ much better than it has any right to.

John grunts as Sherlock continues to arch his hips into his to an unsteady rhythm. “What else…” he begins, barely tilting his hips up to meet Sherlock halfway, tentatively, slowly. “What else... have you fantasised...about?”

“Oh, many things,” Sherlock murmurs, nipping at John’s earlobe. “What it would feel like to wrap my hands around your slick cock, or to wrap my lips around it.” He enunciates with another sharp forward roll of his hips, causing John to gasp, picking up his own rhythm. “To watch your face as I bring you to the most mind-blowing orgasm you’ve ever experienced.”

“Oh, God,” John moans as they continue to frot against one another. They are still fully clothed, and John can feel the thickness between his legs throbbing, begging for a release.

As if reading John’s mind, Sherlock lifts his head from where it rests at John’s neck, looking down at where their hips move together. He pulls at the drawstring of John’s pyjama bottoms, letting them fall to his feet as John’s cock springs out. Sherlock moans happily at the sight of it, leaning forward to rest his sweaty, slick forehead against John’s as he fumbles at the buttons of his own trousers.

Once Sherlock’s pants are off, the two of them sigh with relief, and John places his hands onto Sherlock’s arse. He guides his hips into a steady rhythm, their naked cocks, slick with sweat and precome, sliding against one another. They frot clumsily, desperately picking up the pace, moaning and pushing into each other, foreheads damp, eyes clenched as their irregular breaths and gasps and moans ghost one another’s lips.

The friction is rough, pleasurable, perfect. John’s eyes fall open, venturing down to Sherlock’s gorgeous lips, glowing in the illumination of the thunderstorm, pursed together in concentration. John thinks, to himself, that he could kiss those lips right now. He can already taste their flavour, and god, he wants to kiss them, and it would be so, so easy. But instead, he lets his eyes wander to their waists, watching their naked cocks rubbing together, and it’s the hottest fucking thing he’s ever seen.

That is, until Sherlock pulls one arm from the wall, clutches onto John’s hand, and guides it up to his mouth.

Before John has time to predict what’s going to happen, Sherlock opens his mouth and sucks John’s index and middle finger in, causing John to cry out with both shock and pleasure. John can see Sherlock grinning coyly at him, wrapping his lips around his fingers and sucking, his tongue dancing around them, getting them as wet as he possibly can.

“Fuck, Sherlock,” John whines as Sherlock opens his mouth again, releasing both of John’s fingers. He immediately flattens his tongue and slides it wetly up over the palm of John’s hand and other three fingers, caking them in a generous coat of saliva, and Christ, John is driven nearly insane by his desire for this man.

Sherlock laughs lowly, bringing John’s lubricated hand to wrap around their joined cocks, and they both buck their hips into John’s grip in unison. John groans with pleasure as he looks back up at Sherlock, their heads still pressed together. Sherlock’s expression is one of unbridled awe and lust, and John can only suppose that his own expression is similar.

They silently hold one another’s eyes, knowing that there are unsaid words tucked away in that gaze, but that now is not the time, nor the place.

“John—” Sherlock says, panting between breaths. “I want—want to make you—” He pauses, and the uninhibited desire in his eyes leaves John breathless as well.

A sly grin flashes across Sherlock’s features once more as he raises his own hand to his mouth, gliding his fingers over his plush lips in the exact way he _knows_ John loves. John moans, his moan shortly turning into an “nnnggghh, God, yes,” as Sherlock slides his tongue over each of his own fingers, swallows each, one at a time, and then slowly removes them.

John shivers with arousal, his hips snapping forward involuntarily as Sherlock wraps his long, wet fingers over their cocks.

“Want to see you come,” Sherlock finally concludes, and he sounds very nearly mad with desire. “Want to see your face, John.”

John’s head falls back against the wall, and he clenches his eyes shut once more as a feeling of euphoria settles over his body. The only thing in the entire universe is warmth, wetness, and Sherlock.

“God, yes. Come for me,” Sherlock urges. John feels a surge across his pelvic region, the rhythm of his hips slowing to a stutter. “You’re fucking brilliant, John Watson," Sherlock whispers. "Yes, that’s it, there you go."

When John comes, it feels as though it’s happening in slow motion—the clap of thunder, the stars that cloud his vision, the garbled moan escaping his lips, the pulsing, squeezing sensation of his orgasm spilling from his body. And he’s not sure which happens first, or if they’re all happening at once, but god, he fucking _feels_ it. He feels himself pouring out into Sherlock’s hand, again, and again, and again; hears Sherlock’s words of reverence as his knees begin to wobble, feels Sherlock hook his arms beneath his to keep him standing upright.

After several seconds, John reopens his eyes, gazing dizzily up at Sherlock. Sherlock stares back at him, face scarlet, eyes wild with amazement and a desire that’s tangible.

God, he’s fucking beautiful, and John just wants to eat him up.

John grins, growling lowly and wriggling himself from Sherlock’s grip. He tucks a hand beneath Sherlock’s lanky legs, and the other behind his back, and lifts Sherlock into the air.

As John heads for the stairs, Sherlock releases a disapproving whinge. “John, you’re far too dizzy at the moment to be carrying me. Let me down, or we’re going to—“

But before Sherlock can finish his sentence, John simultaneously remembers that his trousers are still wrapped around his ankles (fucking hell), and that he’s actually quite dizzy (god dammit), and that Sherlock is heavier than he looks (fucking _hell_ ).

He and Sherlock come toppling down onto the first three steps of the stairwell, but the fall is too soft and slow and clumsy for either of them to be injured. As Sherlock wails from the displeasure of it, however, John nearly dies from laughter. Not missing a beat, he rolls himself on top of Sherlock. Sherlock looks up at him, back against the staircase, and curses him for being an idiot.

“Sorry,” John chuckles. “Wasn’t exactly thinking with my brain, there.”

Sherlock barely has time to call him an idiot again before John moves his head down and out of Sherlock’s line of sight. Because even though Sherlock is cranky and distraught, he is still quite hard, and quite naked, and lying quite sprawled out before John, like some sort of ethereal Renaissance sculpture.

Without warning, John slides his tongue down the length of Sherlock’s shaft, brings his tongue to trace circles around his scrotum.

“Fuck,” Sherlock hisses, keening at the sensation.

“Open up for me, sweetheart,” John commands, pressing Sherlock’s legs against the stairs in order to spread his thighs wide. Sherlock obeys without a single protest. John places his tongue against Sherlock’s arsehole, thick and flat and wet, his lips and tongue fighting for ownership as he loosens Sherlock up. 

“Touch yourself for me,” John commands, holding his body up with one hand as he uses the other hand to guide Sherlock’s hand to his own cock. Sherlock obeys again, beginning to stroke himself slowly. “God, yeah,” John rumbles. “You’re fucking delicious. God, wanted to taste you again so bad.” He kisses Sherlock’s hole, and he can feel that Sherlock is already loosening quickly, so he slides his tongue in, causing Sherlock to arch his hips and cry out.

“Fucking beautiful,” John mumbles, sliding his tongue in and out slowly and treacherously. “Can I feel you, now?”

“Yes, fuck, yes,” Sherlock rasps, his body nearly shaking. So John takes one finger and slides the tip of it into Sherlock’s arsehole, and Sherlock bites down at the twisting pleasure and pain.

“You okay?” John asks.

“Yes. Don’t stop,” Sherlock begs.

John glides his finger further in, and Sherlock relaxes even more into his touch. John continues to wet and stimulate the area with his mouth, drinking it in as though he’s drowning and it’s the air he breathes.

“Oh, God!” Sherlock bellows, his body trembling as a thick dollop of pre-ejaculate bursts from the head of his penis.

“Fuck,” John whispers. “I just barely grazed your prostate. Oh my god, that was the hottest fucking thing, holy fuck…”

“Again,” Sherlock moans, and John licks and sucks at his hole as he wriggles his finger in and brushes against it, more deliberately this time, and the noise Sherlock makes is otherworldly.

“You like that, don’t you?” John murmurs. “You want me to massage it for you, sweetheart?”

Gasping and swallowing thickly, and possibly unable to form words, Sherlock adamantly nods.

John brushes his finger against Sherlock’s prostate again, only barely—but it results in an explosive, shaking orgasm. Sherlock’s arsehole clenches around John’s finger, and it seems to last forever and ever, but John continues fervently lapping at his sensitive, throbbing hole. Sherlock’s voice is rough and barely there, chanting “fuck, John, _fuck,”_ as he pulses over and over into his own hand.

John, still dizzy from his own orgasm and delirious from Sherlock’s, takes a deep breath and lies down on the dark staircase. He sprawls out, laying his arm behind his head, gazing upwards towards the ceiling with a tired smile, his shoulder brushing against his friend’s.

“Worth the wait,” Sherlock remarks drily, and John isn’t sure whether it’s a question or a statement, but he’s not about to argue either way.

John chuckles. “God, yeah. I’d say so.”

“Tell me we won’t be waiting again.”

John laughs. “Sherlock. You only came two minutes ago, and you’re thinking of the next time? You’re bloody insatiable.”

John can practically _hear_ Sherlock roll his eyes. “You said we ought to wait before having sex, so as to not endanger our friendship.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“Well. We just had incredible, mind-blowing sex.”

“Also true.”

“And are we still friends?”

“‘Course we are,” John responds. “Though I bloody debated it after you left me waiting for four days with no explanation.”

Sherlock stills. “Yeah. Apologies, again.”

“No worries,” John replies. He turns on his side to face Sherlock, noticing that Sherlock has already turned to face him as well. “To answer your question,” John continues—and he can feel Sherlock’s eyes focussing heavily on him—“Sure, we can have sex more regularly. Give it a try, see how it goes. But if either one of us begins to feel that it jeopardises our friendship in any way, we have to promise to speak up. Deal?”

John finds it odd that he can’t wrap his arms around Sherlock, because that’s something one typically does after sex.

But is that something one does after having sex with one’s friend and flatmate?

As Sherlock answers, his body and breath are soft and warm against John’s own. “Deal,” he says without hesitation. “Friendship first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! As always, kudos and comments are very much appreciated, and if you want to know when the next update happens, click subscribe!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Sherlock describes his findings, he allows himself to indulge in John’s expressions through his peripheral vision. His reaction is as he’d hoped for: admiration, wonderment, and awe, but there’s an element to it that’s uninhibited and new. His eyes are dark, and his tongue slides out over his bottom lip before he tucks that lip in and bites down on it lightly.
> 
> Sherlock’s words trail off, and by the end of the sentence, he’s not even sure what he’s saying.

They say that genius loves an audience, but nothing is better than the audience loving the genius back—especially when the audience is John.

The way his eyes grow hungry and wanting as Sherlock rattles off the findings in a case causes Sherlock to feel things he thought he could never even feel. He isn’t quite used to the approval of the audience at hand; years of “sod off” and derisiveness have become the norm.

But John looks at him like he’s the most fascinating man on the planet; as though he’s special, and amazing. And though Sherlock fears John may be wrong, he doesn’t want him to stop.

Of course, Sherlock does it all for the benefit of those wanting a crime to be solved, but over time, the thrill of being _right_ has become eclipsed by the thrill of being _seen._

Sometimes, Sherlock does it for him. He wonders if John knows how lovely he is when he looks at him like that. If he knows how often Sherlock sees that mouth hanging open in awe, and wants nothing more than to claim it with his own.

So, for Sherlock’s next seduction tactic, he chooses a fantasy he’s always wanted to partake in: sex as a byproduct of being adored.

When a new case presents itself, Sherlock doesn’t weigh the typical factors before accepting. He does know, however, that the particular building being investigated provides multiple rooms, furniture, and surfaces for the acts Sherlock hopes to perform.

The two men approach the crime scene as normal, only with the faintest hint of increased physical closeness: shoulders brushing together as they enter the building; John’s fingers briefly catching onto Sherlock’s sleeve as they exit the cab. And Sherlock wants to touch him back, but he’s unable to do these things in the natural way John does.

He knows he’s got plenty of opportunities to touch him later.

As Sherlock assesses the scene, he can feel John’s eyes burning into him, and the heat of his gaze is so scalding he considers removing his coat. In fewer than three minutes, he turns to face Lestrade, who is standing directly in front of John—but thankfully, he doesn’t hide the look on John’s face. 

As Sherlock describes his findings, he allows himself to indulge in John’s expressions through his peripheral vision. His reaction is as he’d hoped for: admiration, wonderment, and awe, but there’s an element to it that’s uninhibited and new. His eyes are dark, and his tongue slides out over his bottom lip before he tucks that lip in and bites down on it lightly.

Sherlock’s words trail off, and by the end of the sentence, he’s not even sure what he’s saying.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade frowns. “What did you just say?”

“Call the ex-husband,” Sherlock says brusquely, waving him off. “He’ll give you the answers you need.” He’s already stepping away and taking John by the arm to walk towards the staircase before Lestrade has a chance to respond.

“Where are you off to?” Lestrade calls out.

“Off to explore a bit,” Sherlock mumbles as John laughs and the two of them ascend the staircase, perhaps a bit too quickly to not draw further attention. But they both know that the Yard is used to Sherlock’s erratic behaviour by now, and though they may grumble, they likely won’t think twice about it.

Not that it matters to the two of them, because they find themselves tangled together, all limbs and heaving breaths and murmuring sighs before they even reach the top of the staircase. They stumble towards the first unlocked door they can find. John yanks the door open with one hand while loosening the buttons on Sherlock’s coat with the other, and they find their way into a small, dark storage room. By the time they slam the door shut behind them, John’s lips are already at Sherlock’s ears whispering things like “so bloody brilliant” and “utter genius” and “can’t believe you’re real.”

Sherlock leans against a shelf of some kind for support, his head tilting back as John finishes unbuttoning his coat and it slides to the ground. He sighs as John works at his belt, and finally his zip, undoing it and allowing his trousers to follow suit.

Sherlock’s fingers, in turn, work at the buttons of John’s shirt, clumsily pulling it open and splaying his fingers over John’s bare skin. He hears John suck a sharp breath through clenched teeth as Sherlock massages his chest, his abdomen, and his hips, only briefly interrupting the praises he continues to whisper into Sherlock’s ear.

“God, Sherlock,” he rumbles, “God, if you only knew how—“ panting, he licks the shell of Sherlock’s ear, and Sherlock whimpers— “if you only knew...how much I’ve wanted this...” he continues as though he can no longer control the words coming from his mouth. “...every _fucking time_ the genius comes out at crime scenes…” 

Sherlock can feel his face grow a deep red, and he clenches his eyes shut. He is so turned on by John’s words that he can almost feel tears forming, but he swallows them down and continues to listen.

“You’re a fucking genius, Sherlock,” John sighs, his lower body moving against the other man’s. “And you’re fucking gorgeous and—god, I want you so fucking bad.” His hands are now around Sherlock’s hips, pulling down his underwear as Sherlock removes his shirt. The final pieces of clothing slide to the ground, and before they can even kick them away, John’s hand is wrapped around Sherlock’s stiff penis, tugging at it as he cups his balls with the other.

Sherlock gasps and his body stills, able to feel nothing more than the sensation of John’s warm hands around him and his warm voice in his ear.

“Beautiful,” John continues. “Beautiful genius. You did such a good job of solving that crime,” he says, continuing to fondle Sherlock’s leaking cock. “You did so, so good. You always do, don’t you?”

Sherlock exhales a garbled moan, attempting to form words through the sensations. “John,” he says. “Allow me—“

“No,” John interrupts, as he tightens his grip around Sherlock’s cock, and Sherlock’s hips arch forward involuntarily. “Allow _me_. Allow me to slowly take you apart before putting you back together again.”

Sherlock lets out a whooshing sigh as he slides his hands to the small of John’s back, settling them at the hem of his trousers. “Who am I—“ he says through ragged breaths, “—to argue with a soldier?”

John growls as he tilts his head to Sherlock’s jaw and he places an open-mouthed kiss there. He extends his tongue and trails it in circles and lines at Sherlock’s pulse point, Adam’s apple, and clavicle, driving Sherlock nearly insane with desire as he strokes and pulls and massages his cock.

“Help me out here, sweetheart,” John rumbles as he lifts his hand to Sherlock’s mouth and slides his fingers against it as if asking for permission. Sherlock’s lips part immediately to allow John’s fingers inside. He suckles at his index and middle fingers, wetting them as much as he possibly can, hungry for his taste as he slides his tongue deftly over them.

“Fuck,” John moans happily. “I will never tire of your mouth doing all of these things to me.”

Sherlock smiles as John removes his fingers from his mouth and wraps his hand back around Sherlock’s penis; his other hand venturing to his buttocks and gripping hard. He pulls, separating Sherlock’s arse cheeks. The tip of his finger finds Sherlock’s arsehole, brushing against it. Sherlock whimpers, his hips arching forward again.

“Don’t worry,” John whispers. “Not gonna try going in today; I just want to stimulate you a bit.”

Sherlock can’t help but smile at his caretaking nature; only John Watson can make fondling areseholes sound romantic.

As he laughs to himself, he begins to sense the burning sensation of John’s lips against his cheek, and it hits him: he knows the taste of John Watson in nearly every sense; sweaty and delicious and so very _John_ —but he has yet to learn the taste of his mouth.

He also knows that if he were to learn it now, it would be crossing a line; the increasingly blurred line between just friends and _more._

That’s not what John wants. They have an agreement: friendship first.

Sherlock clenches his eyes and turns his head the opposite direction, and John doesn’t miss a beat: his tongue dives immediately into Sherlock’s earlobe, and it feels warm and wet and perfect.

Sherlock feels a tightness in his abdomen that signals impending climax, and his hips arch forwards and backwards and forwards and backwards into John’s grip.

He tries not to think about what it would be like to kiss John. How it would feel to have John’s tongue sliding into his mouth and up against his own; the way he would groan and clutch at his curls and pull him in to deepen the kiss. The way their hearts would race and their breaths would stutter, and how unbelievably _right_ it would feel.

But he can’t stop himself.

He comes with a grunt, emptying himself into John’s hand as John murmurs sweet nothings into his ear.

And just as Sherlock finishes, they hear voices from outside, searching for the two of them.

“Shit,” John hisses. “Is there a lock on the door?”

“No,” Sherlock responds as he slides to his knees, pulling down John’s trousers and underwear with him. “But that makes it more dangerous, and I know that arouses you.”

He takes John’s cock into his mouth, and as if on cue, it twitches, and John heaves a startled sigh, twining his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

“Christ, Sherlock,” he sputters, but he doesn’t argue.

Sherlock presses his fingernails into John’s bare buttocks, pushing him deeper in, and out, and in again, and out, savouring the bitter and sweet taste of John that he cannot get enough of.

John nearly chokes on his own breath, trying to keep down the volume of his panting and groaning as people pass by just outside the door. He orgasms quickly; and when he does, it’s silent, his hips stuttering, his fingers pulling hard at Sherlock’s curls in a way so pleasurable to Sherlock he briefly wonders if he’s going to climax again himself.

After the waves of pleasure subside, Sherlock slowly pulls away. They’re both still gasping for air as he rises to face him. The light is dim, but Sherlock’s eyes have somewhat adjusted, and John is gazing at him with the same reverence he grants him at a crime scene.

John silently shifts closer, their faces centimetres apart, and Sherlock knows what he wants to do, but doesn’t know if he should. So instead, he wraps his arms around John, and he holds him, and rests his chin in his soft hair.

It’s all quite a bit more tender and intimate than Sherlock had intended, but he decides he can blame the post-coital endorphins.

“Suppose we should, er—reappear?” John asks.

“No,” Sherlock replies. “Let’s wait. They’ll be gone soon enough.”

John wraps his own arms around Sherlock’s waist and nods. “Right,” he says. “Not the time to come out of the closet quite yet, eh?”

Sherlock laughs, and John laughs, and they continue to stand there, just like that: holding one another, their naked, sweat-drenched bodies pressed together as the members of the Yard continue to investigate a crime.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the courage granted by the liquor—or so he would have himself believe—John takes Sherlock by the shirt, winding his fingers through the soft fabric of his collar. Sherlock’s body stills at his fingertips. He stares up at John beneath dark lashes, and the desire they both feel is suddenly the loudest thing in the room. John tightens his grip, drawing his friend’s face close enough to feel his breath ghosting his lips.
> 
> “I want to taste you, Sherlock,” he murmurs.
> 
> Sherlock inhales. Exhales. Inhales. Exhales. “Do you?”

John has wanted him since the very first time he laid eyes on him.

He’s never _really_ tried to deny his attraction. Rather, he’s made conscious efforts to keep his fantasies at bay and to deny that the two of them are involved; mainly to ensure Sherlock’s comfort.

But as the two of them have become more intimate over the past few weeks, John has slowly begun to realise that his desires were never truly a secret.

Though Sherlock pretends to be unattuned to the language of sex, he is, of course, a genius in all regards. He seems to read John’s every fantasy; seems to know exactly how to bring him to his knees, quite literally and figuratively.

Recently, Sherlock has been taking on more and more cases. And after the mystery of each has been solved, the two men always seem to end up in a darkened room or alleyway, high on adrenaline as their fingers and tongues explore one another’s bodies.

Whether the power going out tonight at Baker Street—in the middle of January—is an unplanned occurrence or has something to do with Sherlock, John will probably never know. But the two of them are huddled closely together for warmth, laughing and sharing stories over a bottle of whisky and a fireplace, and John sees no reason to complain. They've spent the better part of the evening seated comfortably on the floor, limbs twined together, voices and laughter mingling over the crackle of the burning firewood. The alcohol buzzes pleasantly in John’s veins; Sherlock sips delicately from his glass as he locks eyes with John. A rosy colour spreads over his high cheekbones; his pupils are dark but illuminated by the flames.

They both know that this is foreplay. There is no question in either one’s mind over how this night will end, but for the two of them, getting there is nearly as enjoyable as the act itself.

Sherlock tilts his head back to swallow his drink. John’s eyes wander to the Adam’s apple bobbing behind the tight collar of his shirt. His mind drifts to memories of Sherlock’s cool, ivory skin against his lips; to the feeling of his pulse throbbing wildly beneath John’s tongue.

Sherlock finishes the final drop before setting his glass aside.

With the courage granted by the liquor—or so he would have himself believe—John takes Sherlock by the shirt, winding his fingers through the soft fabric of his collar. Sherlock’s body stills at his fingertips. He stares up at John beneath dark lashes, and the desire they both feel is suddenly the loudest thing in the room. John tightens his grip, drawing his friend’s face close enough to feel his breath ghosting his lips.

“I want to taste you, Sherlock,” he murmurs.

Sherlock inhales. Exhales. Inhales. Exhales. “Do you?”

“Mm,” John hums, removing his hand from Sherlock’s collar, gliding it past his sternum and abdomen and placing it just below his navel. “If I’m being honest,” he says, his words a breath on Sherlock’s mouth, “I actually do spend a great deal of time craving your magnificent taste.”

Sherlock’s eyes fall closed as he parts his lips to speak. “And what—exactly—do you crave?”

“Lie down on your back and close your eyes,” John says as he sets his hand firmly on Sherlock’s chest. “I’ll show you.”

Sherlock leans away, and John tries not to let his heart sink at the sudden growth in proximity between the two of them.

“Trust me,” he says reassuringly as his fingers graze Sherlock's buttons. “This is going to end well.”

Sherlock bites his bottom lip lightly, his expression softening as his gaze flickers down to John’s mouth. “I believe you,” he says, unbuttoning the cuffs of his sleeves.

John leans further back to observe Sherlock’s every slow, graceful movement, his tongue wetting his lips as he watches appreciatively. Sherlock pulls his silk shirt down over his alabaster shoulders and carelessly tosses it aside—perhaps a testament to his drunkenness—before glancing up at John once more. His eyelids are heavy and his hair is mussed, casting shadows over his features and causing his already sinful expression to appear all the more wicked. Finally, he tears his gaze away, turning onto his back and spreading out his long, lanky body, pillowing his head with his hands. “Ready,” he says, as he closes his eyelids and exhales.

“Good lad,” John replies. He takes a few more seconds to unashamedly stare at his friend, watching his abdomen as it rises and falls with his breath.

“I’m going to take off your trousers now,” John says, reaching his index finger over to trace the dark hair below Sherlock’s navel. “Then, I’m going to remove _my_ clothing. And then, I’m going to climb on top of you, naked, and I'm going to straddle your hips.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Sherlock breathes. “I like where this is going.”

John chuckles and lifts himself to his knees, quickly and deftly removing the rest of Sherlock’s clothing before removing his own.

He lifts one leg over Sherlock, framing his lower body with his thighs. The thickness between his legs grazes the very noticeable thickness between Sherlock’s, and he doesn’t resist the urge to rock against it. He slowly slides his length back and forth several times over the hardness below him, the sensation causing goosebumps and emitting a full-body shiver from Sherlock. In that moment, as John feels warm and fuzzy and intoxicated, he considers finishing Sherlock off with reckless abandon, but reminds himself to hold back.

He’s got other plans.

The bottle of whisky they’d been drinking from sits innocuously next to them. John takes it and twists off the cap with one hand, tilting the bottle and pouring liquid into the cap with the other. He shifts his body downwards until he’s straddling Sherlock’s knees, and then tilts his head towards Sherlock’s abdomen. “Just a warning,” he says. “This may be a bit cold.”

Before Sherlock has a chance to respond, John tilts the cap over his navel and dumps the whisky out; dips his body and his head even lower, and slowly flicks his tongue over where the drink had been poured.

It burns his throat as he drinks it in, and Sherlock keens, a garbled curse escaping his throat. John circles his tongue over the area, lapping up the remainder of the liquid. Sherlock groans lowly, and John isn’t sure if it’s a sound of frustration or arousal, so he lifts his head to look.

He’s met with Sherlock’s wide-open eyes, his unbridled expression definitely signifying the latter.

“I wasn’t expecting that,” he says coarsely, a trace of humour in his voice.

John lifts himself up and grins. “And what were you expecting?” 

“I...I don’t know,” Sherlock quietly admits. “You always keep me guessing.”

John’s grin widens, and something stirs in his chest. If he didn’t know Sherlock any better, he’d think he was speaking out of fondness. He brushes the thought away. “More?” he asks, pouring another shot into the cap.

“Yes,” Sherlock replies. “More. Please.”

“Tilt your head back, then, love,” John instructs.

Sherlock immediately does as he’s asked. His head falls backwards onto the ground beneath them, and so do his tousled, sweaty curls. His neck lengthens, the pale skin tightening to expose and accentuate every column and curve. 

_Fucking hell,_ John thinks. _He looks utterly delicious._

John pours the next bit of whisky into the hollow between Sherlock’s collarbones, and Sherlock moans in apparent anticipation. John tightens the cap and sets the bottle down before draping his head above Sherlock’s throat. He slides his tongue over the hole, sloppily drinking the whisky in, drinking _Sherlock_ in, and god, does he taste divine. 

Sherlock begins to rut his naked hips lazily against John’s, groaning and gasping as John worships his neck with his mouth. They grind their slick cocks together, and Sherlock soon comes apart beneath John as he lathes his tongue over every inch of cool skin, nipping and biting and sucking and leaving bruises in his wake.

“John,” Sherlock grunts. “I—”

“Yes?” John murmurs against Sherlock’s shoulder.

“We need to slow down...I want…”

Caught up in the moment, John blinks to reel himself in. “Of course,” he says as he slows the movement of his hips. “Tell me what it is that you want.”

“I want—” Sherlock says breathlessly. “I want you on your knees. On top of me, facing opposite. I want you to fuck my mouth while taking me into yours simultaneously.”

An intense shiver jolts through John’s body. “That sounds amazing,” he says, and he places one more kiss on Sherlock’s shoulder before sitting back up.

He makes the mistake of looking into Sherlock’s eyes; they are somehow both brighter and darker than he’s ever seen them. His hair is matted against his forehead, his neck ruined by bruises, his expression addled with desire.

“God,” John says without a second thought. “You’re fucking breathtaking.”

Sherlock’s tongue glides out over his bottom lip before he bites down onto it. “Turn around,” he playfully commands.

In John’s current state, the manoeuvre seems tedious. But soon, he’s on his hands and knees, face-down over Sherlock’s hips, and the first thing he sees is Sherlock’s pretty, wet cock.

“The view from here is amazing,” he says.

“Quite,” Sherlock agrees, his hands cupping John’s arse, and he squeezes both of his buttocks before his hands fall away. “Hold still.”

John instinctively holds his breath. He hears the cap of the whisky bottle being screwed off. Before he remembers to breathe again, he feels cool liquid being poured over his tailbone. He inhales sharply as it trickles down into the crevice of his buttocks; and immediately, Sherlock’s tongue is there, lapping and sucking.

“Fuck!” John gasps, a byproduct of both shock and pleasure. It’s the first time John has felt Sherlock’s mouth there, and he thinks it may be the sweetest sensation he’s ever felt.

Sherlock laughs lowly before pouring more, gliding his mouth over John’s twitching hole, swirling his tongue fervently to lap up every drop.

John grits his teeth and bucks and moans and feels so weak he nearly faints. Sherlock’s cock remains untouched beneath him, dark and thick and immeasurably hard. John moves down and seals his lips over it, and Sherlock growls lowly at the sensation, his cock twitching. His taste is salty and sweaty and musky and absolutely perfect.

With a single surge of motion, Sherlock’s tongue trails down John’s arse and past his perineum. He swallows John’s cock into his mouth, sliding it deeply in and out of his throat as the two of them moan hungrily around one another’s lengths. They grind into the glorious wetness, clutching wildly onto any body part they can reach, taking each other in so enthusiastically they scarcely breathe.

John comes first this time, buried deep in Sherlock’s throat as Sherlock pumps in and out of John’s mouth. Sherlock thrusts through John’s climax, speeding up until his orgasm comes in three long, powerful waves.

As their hips stutter to a halt, John’s body finally gives out, and he flops unceremoniously down onto Sherlock’s knees.

Sherlock clears his throat. “John,” he says coarsely. “It’s quite cold in here. Come back up and keep me warm.”

The words bring a smile to John’s face. “A little post-sex snuggle, then?” he teases.

“Shut up, or I’m going to die of hypothermia.”

The smile doesn’t fade as John slides his sweaty, clammy body off of Sherlock’s and turns to lie next to him on the floor. He wraps them in the blanket, taking Sherlock into his arms and laying his head on his chest. They relax into one another, limbs entwined. It feels right. Neither of them speak, but neither of them questions it.

John closes his eyes and listens to the crackling of the fire mixed with the sound of Sherlock’s heart beating in his chest. It grows steadier and steadier until he’s certain Sherlock has fallen asleep.

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” he whispers, pulling his body into his own, and before long, he is sleeping too.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For several seconds, Sherlock lies on the countertop, numb, unable to form words. John gazes down at him silently, and Sherlock thinks, for a moment, that he’s looking at him like a man in love.
> 
> “Take me to bed,” Sherlock says to him.

The next morning is the first time Sherlock wakes up in John’s arms. The flat is chilly, though markedly less than it had been when they had fallen asleep. Sherlock reminds himself to thank Mrs. Hudson for turning the power back on at six in the morning as he’d asked. John embraces Sherlock from behind, his face buried into the space between his shoulder blades, his arms draped loosely at his waist. The sun peers brightly through the window, and the air smells of dead firewood and alcohol and sex.

Other than a slight throbbing at his temples, Sherlock doesn’t regret anything. But as John stirs quietly behind him, he suddenly wonders: what if John _does?_

John clears his throat, rubbing his face lazily against Sherlock’s back. “Morning,” he rasps. “How do you feel?”

“Minor headache,” Sherlock mumbles. “And you?”

John places a kiss on Sherlock’s shoulder, and another, and another, sending chills and a surge of relief through Sherlock’s body.

“Not bad at all,” he says, his voice thick from sleep. “Power’s back on, I see.”

“Interesting,” Sherlock casually replies, and John chuckles under his breath before kissing the nape of his neck.

“Your skin is soft,” he murmurs, and the simplicity of the statement makes Sherlock smile.

“I feel sticky,” he says. “I could definitely use a shower.”

He can’t see it, but he can feel John smirking behind him.

***

In the steam-filled shower, water splashes down onto the two of them as Sherlock presses his hands firmly into the front wall. John spreads him open from behind, his hands clutching tightly at his arse cheeks and pulling him apart as his tongue runs mercilessly over his opening. He presses his stubbled face into Sherlock’s flesh, leaving tiny burns as he shakes his head back and forth wildly to widen the strokes of his tongue. He digs his fingernails into Sherlock’s buttocks, red half-moons forming in the pale skin. Sherlock whimpers, chanting John’s name as John flattens his tongue against his arsehole, indelicately licking and sucking and biting at the surrounding flesh as Sherlock writhes and gasps and groans.

He clutches onto Sherlock’s hip to pull himself up, sliding the other hand up into the wet curls on top of Sherlock’s head, and he begins to massage his scalp, and without warning, he tangles his fingers into one curl and pulls. Sherlock nearly cries out as the sensation sends an intense shiver through his body.

“Do it again,” he begs, and John winds his fingers in and pulls once more. Sherlock doesn’t hold back a whimper this time as a fat drop of liquid forms at the tip of his cock.

“Again,” he growls.

“Jesus Christ,” John murmurs. “I’ve never known anyone with such a sensitive scalp.” He leans in closer. “I’d like to see if I can make you come this way.”

 _“Again,”_ Sherlock repeats.

John grips onto Sherlock’s head with both hands this time, tickling his scalp teasingly as he presses their wet bodies together. He bucks his hips up and down, sliding his slick cock over the crevice of Sherlock’s arse. There’s no chance of penetration from this position, but it briefly occurs to Sherlock that they ought to work that into their next sexual experiment.

“Let me see you touch yourself,” John says.

Sherlock takes his erection into his own hand as John continues to massage his scalp. He trails his fingers through his hair for several seconds before yanking at it unannounced. Sherlock grunts and groans and strokes himself, becoming closer to climax with each unexpected pull, the noises coming from his mouth utterly embarrassing.

It must be working for John, however, because after one particularly spectacular pull, Sherlock can feel John’s hot liquid spurting over his backside.

“Fuck,” John curses, gripping Sherlock’s curls and pulling long and hard one final time, and Sherlock nearly sees stars as he comes explosively into his hand.

***

Neither of them have anywhere to be that day. Sherlock cooks breakfast, and they eat it in their underwear at the dining room table over meaningful shared glances. Afterwards, they sit in their armchairs on their laptops in silence, only interrupting one another when Sherlock wants to rant about the idiots at the Yard or John discovers some ridiculous animal video.

As the hours fly by, it occurs to Sherlock that he’s never realised how amazing it can feel to spend the day doing nothing at all. But then, it occurs to him as well, that time with John never feels like time wasted.

John prepares lunch, and somehow convinces Sherlock to begrudgingly join him on the sofa to watch a superhero film. At some point before the first dull intergalactic battle, John wraps his arms around Sherlock, and Sherlock rests his head on John’s shoulders, and suddenly, the film becomes much, much better.

Since Sherlock had made dinner and John had made lunch, they decide to go out for dinner to their favourite Chinese restaurant. John requests that Sherlock wears that one shirt that he likes, and the thrill Sherlock feels when John watches him put it on is palpable.

Sherlock orders shrimp fried rice and John orders spicy noodles. Sherlock deduces the surrounding patrons with the razor sharp wit that always astounds and amuses John, and he feels giddy and punch drunk as they laugh at one another across the table.

They are finishing up their meal when a voice calls Sherlock’s name from across the restaurant. He knows the voice is familiar, but it isn’t until he sees the man walking towards him that he is able to place it.

“Sherlock?” the man says as he approaches them. “Oh, it is you!”

Sherlock backs his chair away from the table to stand up and extends a hand towards the man. “Doctor Larson,” he says with an authentic smile and a nod.

“Call me Colin,” the other man says as he takes Sherlock’s hand into his. He’s an attractive man; he wears a maroon jacket and tie and well-pressed black slacks; he’s got a neatly-trimmed goatee and his hazel eyes are as bright as his smile. Sherlock thinks to himself that it must have been ten years since they’ve seen one another, but he doesn’t look as though he’s aged much at all, save the greying hair at his temples.

He had been one of Sherlock’s junior professors at Cambridge. His favourite junior professor, without a doubt. He had only been five years Sherlock’s senior, and they had spent many hours together in the library and the laboratory. They had grown quite fond of one another, but had always kept it strictly professional.

The week after Sherlock had graduated, Doctor Larson had asked Sherlock out, but Sherlock had turned him down. He had just been offered a chemistry assistantship at Bart’s, and his brother had always warned him that emotional attachments could destroy academic endeavours.

“Colin,” Sherlock says finally, and the man squeezes Sherlock’s hand. “It’s so good to see you.”

John clears his throat pointedly.

Sherlock lets go of Colin’s hand instantly and turns to John. “John,” he says. “This is an old junior professor of mine, Doctor Colin Larson.”

“John Watson,” Doctor Larson says amicably, extending his hand towards John. “I’ve read your blog! I so enjoy keeping up with what the two of you are doing!”

“ _Doctor_ John Watson,” John says drily as he shakes Doctor Larson’s hand.

Doctor Larson nods enthusiastically and turns his attention back to Sherlock. “I couldn’t be more proud of you, Sherlock,” he says. “I do wish we had more time to catch up, but I’ve got an international call to make, so I’ve got to head out.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a business card, and places it in Sherlock’s hand. “You look wonderful,” he says, wrapping his other hand around Sherlock’s upper arm and squeezing it with the familiarity of a close friend. “You’re taking care of yourself, then?” he asks.

Sherlock’s heart clenches a bit; Doctor Larson had, of course, been privy to his drug habits through his university years. “I am,” he says reassuringly.

Doctor Larson squeezes Sherlock’s arm again, letting his hand linger. “I’m happy to hear that,” he says. “I hope to hear from you soon. I’ve… thought about you through the years.”

“Well, alright, then. Goodbye,” John says from across the table, probably louder than necessary. “Mustn’t leave those international people waiting, hmm?”

Doctor Larson and Sherlock both gaze back at John awkwardly. Sherlock turns back to Doctor Larson and nods, and Doctor Larson turns and nods at John, and John nods back curtly.

“Take care,” the man says, and he turns to go.

“Mhm,” John grumbles, and returns to his noodles.

Sherlock arches an eyebrow at John, who has now gone quiet. The comfortable openness between them earlier seems to have suddenly shifted to something cold.

“John?”

“How old is he, anyway?” John snidely remarks. “That tweed jacket? What is he, seventy?”

"I'd say he's about thirty-nine now," Sherlock says. “And you're one to talk.” He gestures towards John’s wool-knit jumper.

John sniffs angrily. “Either way,” he says. “Coming to a restaurant like this alone on a Saturday night?” He clucks his tongue judgmentally. “Loser.”

Sherlock frowns at him. “He’s a genius, in all honesty. He graduated top of his class at Harvard, twice. He was working on his third PhD while I was attending Cambridge. He helped me get into graduate school myself, and—”

“Yes, that’s great,” John snaps, shoving another bite of food into his mouth.

Sherlock watches intently, bewildered by John’s behaviour. His face is red, and beads of sweat are forming at his brow. His jaw is clenched, and he refuses to look Sherlock in the eye.

“John,” Sherlock says. “Why are you angry?”

John smiles thinly and shakes his head. “Not angry. Not angry at all. If you want to go out with your former professor, I think you should.”

It hits Sherlock like a brick. He knows it should be a red flag; but it actually stirs a deep, deep thrill in his chest. “John,” he asks. “Are you jealous?”

John snorts and laughs. “Jealous? Why would—” he shakes his head swiftly, chewing his food. “You think I’m jealous? What have I got to be jealous of, Sherlock? Of some bloke asking you out?” He takes a napkin from the table and wipes his face, and then starts to tear at it nervously. “We’re just friends, aren’t we?”

And Sherlock knows that’s the truth, and he knows he should feel relief at John’s words, so he is shocked when he feels his heart sink. “Yes,” he says. “Just friends.”

The rest of the meal is eaten in silence, and not the pleasant kind.

***

On the cab ride home, Sherlock doesn’t expect the conversation to continue, but oh, it definitely does.

“Pretty audacious of him to just… approach the table and...touch you like that,” John grumbles. “How does he know you aren’t…”

Sherlock raises his eyebrow. “That I’m not what?”

“You know… two people at a restaurant… having dinner...it could have been…”

“John,” Sherlock’s eyes widen in disbelief. “Are you implying that Doctor Larson ought to have suspected we were on a date?”

“No,” John retorts. “But he didn’t _know_ that we weren’t, so…”

Sherlock can hardly believe what John’s saying. He always seems to display extreme discomfort and denial when others imply that the two of them are dating, and so, for him to bring this up now…

Sherlock is utterly confused. “Would you like for me to call him and tell him we were on a date?”

John huffs. “No!”

“Then what would you like for me to do?”

John shakes his head again. “I don’t know! I don’t...I don’t care what you do! We aren’t dating, Sherlock, so if you want to call Doctor Goatee and set up a date with him and run away into the sunset together, bloody _do it,_ I don’t care!”

Sherlock hadn’t wanted to do that. He hadn’t wanted that at all. But at the moment, he finds himself confused and upset and frankly angry at the way John is acting, so he decides he probably ought to.

“Alright,” he says, reaching into his coat pocket to retrieve his phone and the business card. “I will.”

“Good,” John says, crossing his arms and staring out the cab window.

Sherlock dials the number and puts the phone to his ear. It rings three times, and then a voice on the other end answers.

“Hello?”

“Doctor L—Colin?”

“Sherlock? My goodness, I wasn’t expecting you to call so soon! I’m on the other line, so I…”

“Right,” Sherlock remembers. “International call. I was just wondering if you would like to meet up tomorrow for tea.”

Sherlock can practically hear John’s eyes rolling.

“Yes, I would love to,” Doctor Larson replies. “Does four o’clock work for you? At the usual place?”

“Four o’clock,” Sherlock says, and he can feel John’s gaze burning into him. “The usual place. Perfect.”

“See you then, Sherlock. Have a good night.”

Sherlock hangs up, and John stares forward, arms tightly crossed over his chest.

***

The two of them make their way up the stairway to 221B, John stomping loudly several feet before Sherlock. He takes the key out to open the door, flings it open, and tosses his wallet onto the sofa as Sherlock enters a few seconds behind him.

Sherlock watches as John throws his coat onto the hook, treads to the kitchen, noisily fills the kettle with water and sets it on the stove. Sherlock removes his coat and scarf and lays them onto the back of the sofa before quietly joining him.

John rummages through the cupboard to retrieve a teacup. He turns to set it on the counter, rests his hands there, and hangs his head silently.

Sherlock wants to say something. He wants John to say something. He doesn’t know what to say, but he knows that things aren’t right, and earlier they had been so right, and he just wants things to be that way again.

“So…” John finally says softly, not looking up. “You’re meeting up with him tomorrow?”

“I am,” Sherlock says, taking a step forward, though he’s not quite sure why.

“Good,” John says.

“Yes,” Sherlock says as he approaches John’s side. “I suppose.”

John doesn’t move. “Is it a date?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock replies honestly, staring at John’s jaw as it clenches and unclenches. “Does it matter if it is?”

“No,” John responds tightly.

“Good,” Sherlock says.

“Good.”

John raises his head at last to look at Sherlock, and for the first time in as long as Sherlock can remember, he can’t quite read what his eyes are saying. There’s a hint of discomfort; but there’s also a wild, animalistic desire that seems to overtake it.

“John,” Sherlock breathes, swallowing thickly.

John turns and grabs him by the shoulders, spinning him and pressing his back into the counter top, yanking at the buttons of his shirt with abandon. He pops them off and pulls off the shirt and tosses it to the ground, and suddenly his mouth is on Sherlock everywhere, his neck and his chin and his shoulders and his earlobe and his chest as he works his underwear and trousers off, and Sherlock has never felt so _seen_ in a darkened room.

Sherlock leans onto the counter and wraps his legs around John’s waist, scrabbling over his chest to pull his shirt over his head. John pulls his trousers down and kicks them away as he bites Sherlock’s ear and swirls his tongue inside his earlobe. “Sherlock,” he groans. “Sherlock, Sherlock.”

Sherlock uses his legs to pull John’s naked body in closer, closer, closer, and John's cock grazes Sherlock’s arsehole. Sherlock wraps his arms around his shoulders and pulls him into him, as if begging him to enter.

“You know we’re going to need some preparation for that,” John whispers with amusement.

Sherlock bites his lip, breathing raggedly as he presses his opening against the tip of John’s cock. “Yes, I know, John, I know—look in the top drawer, there’s—”

John pulls back and opens the drawer in question, retrieving a bottle of lube from it. “You keep lube in the kitchen drawer?” he asks, his eyes crinkling with laughter. 

“I’ve made a lot of plans,” Sherlock breathes. “Involving many different areas of the house, I thought it better to be prepared so—”

John pops the bottle open and pours a generous amount of lube onto his fingers. “Perfect,” he says, and he wraps one arm around Sherlock’s neck, resting their foreheads together as he presses his index finger into Sherlock’s opening.

Sherlock writhes at his touch, biting his lip hard and groaning.

“Shhh,” John says. “Relax. Lie on your back and put your legs over my shoulders.”

Sherlock unwraps his arms from around John’s neck and lays backwards, spreading his legs further and resting them on John’s shoulders as he’d been asked, and the position is absolutely perfect. John adds a second finger after a few thrusts, and eventually a third, grazing Sherlock’s prostate as Sherlock swallows and gasps and squirms.

“John,” he sighs. “I want you. I want all of you. Now.”

“You sure?” John rumbles, placing a kiss on Sherlock’s leg.

“I’m sure.”

John pops the cap open one more time and pours the rest of the liquid onto his cock, lining himself up with Sherlock’s opening, and he presses the tip of himself in.

Sherlock growls lowly, the sensation of simultaneously being ripped apart and put together almost too much to bear, but he begs John for more.

“More, John, more,” he groans, and John pulls himself all the way out before inserting himself again, this time deeper.

“God, Sherlock, fuck. You’re so fucking tight, Sherlock, Christ, you feel fucking amazing.”

He pulls himself out once more, this time pressing back in _hard_ , and Sherlock has to bite back a sob.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock,” he swears, and he begins to fuck him. He takes his time, beginning slowly, but as he picks up the pace, Sherlock loses control of himself. He feels as though he’s floating, shaking and gasping as John fucks him, faster and faster and harder, thrusting into him wildly.

“I want you too, Sherlock,” John snarls as he pounds into him. “I want all of you.”

Sherlock comes untouched in spurts, his arsehole clenching around John’s twitching cock as John heaves a groan and pours himself out as well. 

For several seconds, Sherlock lies on the countertop, numb, unable to form words. John gazes down at him silently, and Sherlock thinks, for a moment, that he’s looking at him like a man in love.

“Take me to bed,” Sherlock says to him.

So John takes him by the hand and pulls him off of the counter, and they walk to Sherlock’s bedroom, side-by-side. Sherlock collapses into his bed first, and he doesn’t let go of John’s hand, and he hopes John understands that he’s asking him to stay.

John does. He falls into bed and curls up next to him, placing kisses on his shoulders in the way that Sherlock has just learned he adores.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What does a kiss say, after all? A kiss is a gift. A kiss is a promise. 
> 
> A kiss says, “You’re mine, and I’m yours.” 
> 
> John exhales. “Can I kiss you?” 
> 
> Sherlock is trembling in his arms. “If you don’t,” he murmurs roughly, “I may lose my mind.”

Sleep: a major necessity for most, but something that tends to elude Sherlock.

It’s not that he doesn’t _want_ to sleep, generally; it’s just that the world is so achingly loud. His brain is an ever-burning fire that won’t be kindled, and at some point in his life, he had given up the fight. Besides, some of his best thinking occurs in the middle of the night, when he’s sleep-deprived and food-deprived and feels as though his head is no longer even attached to his body.

He’s never slept as deeply as he does when he’s sleeping next to John.

Because when John is next to him, Sherlock hears only _him._ Hears only his breath; feels only his skin; smells only his scent. And though it overwhelms and consumes his senses in much the same way, he somehow finds within it a quiet serenity.

***

When John falls asleep, Sherlock is pressed against him, and he’s soft and warm, and he smells like honey and tobacco, and he feels like he belongs to him.

John tries not to curse himself for getting in this deep. He knows, after all, that Sherlock isn’t interested in forming romantic attachments. And so, if John’s sentiments veer towards the side of the romantic, he will simply keep it a secret. John doesn’t care, after all, if the two of them are friends or lovers or something else altogether; he simply wants more days and more nights like this.

Without the fighting and the flirtatious former professors, of course. Those things can fuck off.

John lets the memory of them fall away the moment they come to his mind, because Sherlock’s hair rustles against his cheek, and Sherlock’s chest rises and falls beneath John’s hand, and he knows they can sort it all later.

***

Sherlock awakens at some point in the middle of the night, facing a sleeping John; his body is plastered into his, his leg draped over his thigh. His arms are huddled into his chest, and their faces are perfectly-aligned, their lips centimetres apart. He can very nearly taste John, and he feels dizzy as he basks in the flavour; it’s John, and it’s Sherlock, and it’s the two of them, and it’s familiar, and it’s home.

Sherlock’s not completely sure it isn’t a dream.

He closes his eyes, and he inhales, and his fingers are weaving themselves through John’s short hair. He brushes their noses together, and John’s breath is warm and even, his lips dry and slightly parted.

Sherlock’s heart races. He lies there, not moving. He works on simply breathing, and he listens to John do the same.

He begins to feel tears of anxiety and frustration prickling at his eyes. He wants to fill the space between their mouths, but he can’t. What would John think if he woke up to this? Sherlock’s hands in his hair and his mouth on his?

And suddenly, John is awake. His eyes flutter open, and his breath hitches.

***

When John awakens, he is enveloped in a feeling of euphoria and warmth. Sherlock’s scent and his skin and his breath are so close, and his fingers are in John’s hair, and his lips are near enough to taste. John knows it must be a dream. So he doesn’t think twice; he cups Sherlock’s face in his hands, closes his eyes again, and attempts to even out his breath.

Somehow, this hazy moment feels both monumental and completely natural. This is Sherlock that John is in bed with. Sherlock, whose breath mingles with his. Sherlock, who John has adored and craved and absolutely hated within the span of three seconds, but whom he could never imagine living without. Sherlock, his flatmate. Sherlock, his best friend. Sherlock, who brought John back to life when he thought his life was over. Sherlock, who, in the past few weeks, had taken him into new realms of passion and pleasure and utter fulfillment.

Sherlock, who he’s never even kissed.

What does a kiss say, after all? A kiss is a gift. A kiss is a promise.

A kiss says, “You’re mine, and I’m yours.”

John exhales. “Can I kiss you?”

Sherlock is trembling in his arms. “If you don’t,” he murmurs roughly, “I may lose my mind.”

“Can’t have that,” John says, and he delicately tilts Sherlock’s head towards his.

***

Tentative. Soft. Curious. An experimental caress of lips against lips. Sherlock can sense that John may be holding himself back, that he may be taking his time. And he is grateful, because this moment is precious, and Sherlock would have it last forever, if it could. 

Sherlock is kissing John Watson, and John Watson is kissing him back.

A stifled moan catches in Sherlock’s throat, a surge of electricity dancing through his body, and they both freeze. Goosebumps form on Sherlock’s skin as John sighs and places another kiss, chaste but firm, onto his lips. Sherlock kisses him back in kind, and he wants to melt into John, wants to fuse their lips together, but he settles for massaging the nape of his neck as John slides his thumbs over his cheekbones.

John sighs and brushes his tongue questingly over Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock moans as the wetness sweeps across his lips, prodding and begging permission for them to part. Sherlock moans again as his mouth falls open. John licks into it with a slick insistence, tightening his grip on Sherlock’s face as their tongues and lips slide lazily and wetly together, their breaths loud and ragged and echoing in their ears.

Emotions stir deep within Sherlock, but those emotions have names that terrify him, so he pours them into John’s mouth, allowing each kiss to speak for him.

It’s delicate, and explosive, and beautiful, and just as it ought to be.

***

When John finally breaks the kiss, it’s not because he wants it to end, but because he wants to look at Sherlock. Sherlock looks utterly wrecked; satisfied and vulnerable, his eyes ablaze, his lips red and kiss-swollen.

“That was amazing,” John breathes, though at the moment, simple words seem entirely ill-fitting.

“Incredible,” Sherlock murmurs. “I could do this for hours.”

John thinks to himself, that if Sherlock isn’t careful, that’s exactly what will happen.

“I may hold you to your word on that,” he says with a grin, and he sucks Sherlock’s plump bottom lip into his mouth.

***

From the comfort of Sherlock’s bed, the world surrounding the two of them is dizzy and lifeless and grey, and nearly nonexistent as they wrap themselves in their blankets and each other. They kiss and they kiss and they kiss, until they wear themselves out and finally fall asleep. And when they wake, they kiss some more, until they can no longer stay awake; it happens again and again. Awake, one or two soft touches, sleep. Awake, bodies and lips and teeth and tongues wrestling each other, sleep. Awake, kissing and kissing and sighing and gasping and groaning and warmth and dizziness, sleep.

Sherlock kisses like it’s a drug; he clings to John tightly, as though he’s got no other choice. He folds himself into him, writhes and whimpers and spreads himself over him, tangles his limbs into John’s and moves his body against him and desperately tries to get closer, and closer, but it’s never close enough. He kisses with the same exact fervour and passion that he displays with most things in his life, studying and cataloguing and taking it all in, until he’s weary and sleep-deprived and collapses on top of John.

John kisses as though his life depends on it; with the gentleness of a doctor and the deep passion of a soldier. He kisses Sherlock like he’s something to be treasured; he kisses Sherlock like he means it.

There is little more than their mouths and their breaths and their tongues and their hearts and their bodies. All thoughts drift away, all time and space and worries fall by the wayside. They are both complacent in the fact that it goes no further than this—because the intimacy and the closeness of this act feeds their hunger like nothing ever has.

And neither of them know what tomorrow will bring, but they kiss one another as though it’s the most important thing they’ll ever do; and when they sleep, they dream of never letting each other go.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John stands before Sherlock as his best friend, who wants his happiness more than anything.
> 
> John stands before Sherlock, knowing how much he’s got to lose, but knowing how much more he may be losing if he doesn’t take the chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is! What I intended to be a “study in rimming,” so to speak, turned into soft kissing and love confessions and fluff because it’s THESE TWO and there’s really no other choice. 
> 
> I hope you are all still satisfied with the outcome. Thank you for all of your kudos and comments; you are without question the reason I keep doing this!
> 
> This fic is mostly unbeta’d, so please forgive the mistakes! 
> 
> And without further ado! Enjoy the final chapter!

They wake at a quarter past nine, still caught in a haze; their skin tingling and their hearts racing as they are greeted by one another’s lips. It’s been only hours since their first kiss, but in those hours, they’ve woken up like this so many times, it’s already becoming hard to remember what it’s like to wake up _not_ kissing.

Sherlock kisses John sweetly and with an unquenchable enthusiasm, his tongue sweeping John’s mouth as his fingers skim over his spine. John cradles Sherlock’s face in his hands like he’s breakable, meeting each sweep of Sherlock’s tongue with a tender brush of his own.

John mumbles—in between delicate nips at Sherlock’s lip—that it’s his turn to make breakfast today. He is indisputably caught up in the romance of it all, and he is no longer holding back.

He wants this man.

Wants to make him breakfast in bed, wants hold his hand in taxicabs, wants to whisper promises in his ear that may sound inconceivable, but that he intends to keep.

“Care to join me in the kitchen?” he rumbles against Sherlock’s jaw. “Or shall I bring it here so we can eat in bed?”

John faintly perceives Sherlock tensing at the question, but it’s not until Sherlock sets a hand on John’s chest to back away that John worries.

“John.” 

There is an uncomfortable hesitance in Sherlock’s voice that sends John into a momentary panic. Had he gone too far? Had he done the wrong thing? Is this all too much?

The next few words out of Sherlock’s mouth do little to comfort John.

“I’ve got some business to attend to,” Sherlock says, his gaze faltering. “I’m going to need to leave town for a few days.”

John wants to ask a million questions. Why? Where? And most importantly, when will he be back? But instead, he lets go of Sherlock, takes a deep breath, and simply says: “Alright.”

He tells himself not to worry; this is Sherlock, after all. The impulsive, enigmatic genius who _often_ leaves for days on end without any explanation, and had done so since the two of them met.

He had done the same a couple of weeks earlier, around the time the two of them began their intimate liaisons. That had been the first time it had bothered John, because Sherlock had left him _wanting._ But this time feels different. This time, it feels a bit like he’s given his heart to Sherlock, and Sherlock is trying to run away with it.

Sherlock nods silently. Opens his mouth as though he’s trying to speak. Pauses. Opens it again. Closes it. Pulls the duvet off of his body, sits up, turns, and gets out of bed.

The two of them have never been good at the talking thing. Sure, on a case, sometimes Sherlock talks and talks and talks until John isn’t even sure he’s speaking English anymore, but neither of them are the type to talk about personal things. Learning one another’s taste is easy. Bringing each other to the height of ecstasy, and kissing until daybreak—those things seem unquestionably simple compared to the daunting task of speaking candidly to one another.

As Sherlock stands beside the bed, John’s stomach is in knots. He can see the tension that forms over Sherlock’s naked body, illuminated by the mid-morning sun, and then he watches as Sherlock continues to make for the door. 

“Wait,” John says, and Sherlock pauses to put on his dressing gown, but doesn’t turn to face him.

John sighs, trying to find the words. Because although he knows how he feels _(don’t go Sherlock please don’t go),_ he’s not quite sure begging is the answer.

“Is this something that’s going to... keep happening?” he asks. “You and I have an intensely passionate night together, and then you leave for days with no explanation?”

Sherlock turns his head back over his shoulder. He is still sweaty, and his curls stick to the nape of his neck. “Is there a caveat to this arrangement that once we’ve had sexual encounters, I’m not allowed to leave? Or that we need to know one another’s whereabouts at all times?”

John sighs deeply, rolling his eyes, and he feels his patience wearing thin. “No,” he says. “I just—oh!”

As the thought strikes him, his patience dissolves completely, replaced by a tiny dose of white-hot dread. “You’re going to meet up with that professor later, is that what it is?”

Sherlock finally looks over at John, his face furrowed into a slightly confused, slightly offended expression. _“No,”_ he curtly responds.

John lets out a defeated huff of air and sits upright in bed, tossing his arms into the air with frustration. “I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he says. “Yes, you are obviously free to come and go as you please. But after spending such an incredible day together—hell, after spending several incredible _weeks_ together, I’ve formed a bit of an attachment, and a good reason to miss you when you’re away.”

The words come rolling off of John’s tongue, sharp and fast and true and very much unrestrained.

“And furthermore,” he continues, “only a heartless man would send someone into the arms of another only hours after making _love_ to him like that!”

John had not meant to say _that_ word.

He freezes, and he doesn’t say anything more; he only stares at Sherlock, hoping he will speak.

Sherlock doesn’t. He stares blankly ahead, his lips pursed, his eyes fading to a dull nothingness. “Perhaps this was a mistake,” he says, his voice barely a whisper.

John’s stomach sinks. “Which...which part?”

Sherlock bites his bottom lip firmly as his gaze shifts to the ceiling, and he blinks, as though holding something back. “We made a promise that if our sexual endeavours began to have a negative impact on our friendship, we would stop. And I think, perhaps, it’s having said impact.”

John breathes deeply and steadily. He continues to watch Sherlock as he stands there, not moving. He appears to be so still on the outside, but John knows that his brain must be moving at lightning speed right now. He pulls himself off of the bed, quickly retrieves one of Sherlock’s oversized robes from a nearby chair, and wraps himself in it before crossing the room to meet Sherlock.

Sherlock doesn’t raise his eyes to meet his. His fingers twitch at his sides, as though they are aching to reach out and touch John, but they don’t.

John stands before Sherlock, no longer angry, no longer hurt or worried or impatient. He’s got a million reasons to believe that Sherlock is acting rashly; that he’s making a mistake. But John knows this is not his decision alone to make.

John stands before Sherlock as his best friend, who wants his happiness more than anything.

John stands before Sherlock, knowing how much he’s got to lose, but knowing how much more he may be losing if he doesn’t take the chance.

“Alright, then,” John says. “Then we end it here. No more sleeping together, no more kissing, no more touching. We return to the way things were.”

Sherlock swallows. “That was the agreement, was it not?”

“Perhaps. But agreements can be amended. So tell me, Sherlock,” John says, taking two steps closer until he is effectively crowding his space. “Is this what you want?”

Sherlock doesn’t move away. John’s head hangs down over his chest, and though they aren’t embracing, he can feel his body heat emanating off of him, as if in waves.

“It’s quite embarrassing to admit, John,” Sherlock replies, “but I’ve got no idea what I want. I only know what I don’t want, and that is to lose your friendship.”

John’s heart swells with affection for this kind, ridiculous man. “I assure you that nothing in the world could ever cause that to happen,” he says. “Simply put, Sherlock—I can’t imagine my life without you in it. I promise you that I will _always_ be your friend.”

“Then what—“ the words catch in Sherlock’s throat, and he coughs before continuing. “Then what am I doing wrong?”

John frowns, raising his head to observe Sherlock’s expression. “What makes you think you’re doing something wrong?”

“I’ve upset you, John,” Sherlock says, as though the statement were unarguable. “Last night, and this morning. It seems I keep making you unhappy, and I don’t wish for this pattern to continue.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” John can no longer fight the urge to lift his arms and snake them around Sherlock’s waist, and so he does.

Sherlock doesn’t reciprocate, but he doesn’t resist.

“Just how is it, exactly,” John asks, “that you can read everything about me, but you completely fail to see how happy I am when I’m with you? Because I’m happier now than I’ve been in a very long time.”

John pulls back, tilting his head to look Sherlock in the eye. Sherlock continues to stare away, avoiding him, so John unwraps one arm from his waist and places it softly underneath Sherlock’s chin, guiding it to look at him.

“When I met you, Sherlock, and we became flatmates, I thought it might be the best thing that ever happened to me. But then I became your friend, and I thought, no, _that’s_ got to be it.”

John detects the tiniest smile on Sherlock’s lips.

“And then, I became lucky enough to know your taste. And to be able to feel you, to feel what it’s like to hold you, to wake up next to you…” he tilts his head up and places a soft kiss on the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “...and to kiss you. And now, in all honesty, I don’t know that I could choose. I love it all; I love being your friend. I love living with you, I love working with you, and I love kissing you. I think what I’m getting at is...I just love _you._ And perhaps it’s selfish of me, but I want all of it, Sherlock. I want it all with you.”

Sherlock finally meets John’s eyes, but not for long; he tucks his head into John’s and folds his body into his, heaving a sigh. “I don’t know exactly how to react to this knowledge,” is all he can say.

“It’s alright,” John says, sliding his arms underneath Sherlock’s shoulders. “I don’t need an answer now. I’m not asking you for anything. Just tell me if you’d like for me to go.”

Sherlock buries his face into the side of John’s neck and kisses it. Kisses John’s ear, kisses John’s jaw. Then, he takes his face into his hand, turns his head, and kisses him tenderly on the lips.

John sighs and smiles into the kiss.

Sherlock pulls back and rests his chin on John’s head again, his arms wrapped loosely around John’s waist. John rests his hands on Sherlock’s hips and his head on his chest, closing his eyes and listening to Sherlock breathe.

Sherlock inhales deeply. “When I left town a few weeks ago,” he mumbles, “Mycroft had informed me that my grandmother had fallen critically ill.”

John’s eyes fly open. “Oh,” he says. “Sherlock, I’m so sorry. So that’s why you left. God, I feel like a moron.“

“She lives in France, so I traveled to her, and—“

John shushes him. “No need to explain further,” he says, brushing a kiss on his cheek. “I’m so sorry for being such a sod.”

“A few minutes before you awoke just now, Mycroft sent me a text message informing me she’s passed. So I’m leaving for France this afternoon.”

The news stabs John in the heart. “Oh. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock,” he whispers into his ear, dusting it with kisses. “I’m so sorry, love. My god, I can’t believe how ridiculous I’ve been, Jesus, I’m—“

Unexpectedly, Sherlock begins to chuckle, the sides of his ribcage bouncing with laughter. “It’s fine, John. I didn’t exactly give you any details to go by.”

John can feel a smile creeping up on his own lips. “No, I suppose not, but good god, did I ever jump to the wrong conclusion.”

“Which reminds me,” Sherlock says. “I’d better call Larson to cancel.”

John smiles. “And what will you tell him?” he asks.

“Oh, the truth, I suppose,” Sherlock replies, his hands running up and down John’s back. “That I’ve got business to attend to. And I suppose I should apologise for using his kindness as a means of getting back at you.”

John’s eyebrows fly upwards. “Getting back at me for what?”

“For acting like an idiot.”

John exhales a breath of laughter. “Guilty,” he says. “Can I make it up to you by coming with you to France?”

Sherlock freezes. “Why would you do that?”

“These things can be difficult, Sherlock,” John says. “And perhaps it would be easier for you if you had a friend at your side.”

Sherlock unfolds himself from John, looking down into his eyes. “I think I would like that,” he says, and he brushes their lips together.

***

So that morning, Sherlock leaves to go to Paris to celebrate the life of his grandmother, and he takes John with him. At her wake the following day, John wraps his arm around Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock rests his body against John’s and weaves their fingers together. And afterwards, John kisses Sherlock in front of the cathedral, and in front of Sherlock’s family, and his friends, and God, and everyone else.

And once they are in the cab headed back to their hotel, John brushes a curl from Sherlock’s ear, and Sherlock presses their foreheads together, and that’s when he tells John that he loves him, too.

***

In their hotel room, Sherlock lays John onto the bed and sprawls his naked, sweat-drenched body over his. Resting on his forearms, he presses the tip of his oiled cock into John, the two of them sucking in a sharp gasp of air.

Sherlock watches John in awe, observing his reactions, pressing in inch by inch. John bites back a low rumble coming from his throat as he tosses his head backwards, his face drenched with sweat and scarlet with arousal.

Sherlock thinks to himself how lovely John is, that he’s exquisite, and remarkable, and _his._ He shivers as he finds himself rooted in John completely, and he stills. “I love you,” he murmurs into John’s lips as he kisses him, and John kisses him back, echoing his words.

Sherlock begins to roll his hips as he kisses John’s neck and his earlobe and his temple reverently. His thrusts become more deliberate, and John moans beneath him, digging his nails into Sherlock’s back more deeply with each movement.

John’s cock is soon rock-hard, the wet tip grazing Sherlock’s stomach, straining for friction as Sherlock pumps himself into him, faster and faster. Sherlock moves his body into John relentlessly, grunting and sweating and gasping as he feels every cell in his body nearly explode with the pleasure of being buried deep into John’s tight wet heat.

John takes Sherlock’s head into his hands, pulling it down and smearing his mouth onto his. They kiss as they gasp and groan and their sweat-slickened bodies slide together, writhing and bucking. John tugs at Sherlock’s curls, deepening the kiss until they are consuming one another, drowning in one another, barely breathing. It’s open-mouthed and filthy, all greedy tongues and clashing teeth and wet, smacking lips.

Sherlock begins to feel the pull of orgasm in his lower abdomen, and he chases it, his thrusts growing faster and more unsteady, his breathing becoming shorter and more irregular.

John takes his own darkened, swollen cock into his hand, and in two strokes, his body clenches around Sherlock’s, throbbing and throbbing as he climaxes, biting off a low moan as hot liquid spills into his hand and onto Sherlock’s belly.

It’s all Sherlock needs to push him over; he shivers as goosebumps form and his vision blurs, and everything in the universe seems to fall away. He cries out John’s name as he comes _hard,_ and John captures his mouth into his once more, kissing him and murmuring his name against his lips.

The two of them have never been more fulfilled than they are in this moment—wholly and completely sated. And they both know that with each other, they will never again be left wanting.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I’m @fin__amour on Twitter...come say hi!


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